


Seldom All They Seem

by shatou



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Republic (Comics), Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Clone Wars (2003) - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Established padme/sabe, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Human Disaster Anakin Skywalker, Hurt/Comfort, I won’t tag it because I don’t go into it and I don’t want to bait but know that they’re wives, Implied past anakin/padme, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedure, Minor Character Death, Presumed Major Character Death, Slow Burn, Torture, prosthetic, there is fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24952714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatou/pseuds/shatou
Summary: Obi-Wan returns from his presumed death and Anakin realizes he cannot fathom living through that grief again. When he sees Obi-Wan dying in his dreams, he vows he will not let it happen.[Or: What if Anakin never gets together with Padmé, and his so-called prophetic nightmares are of Obi-Wan dying instead? Canon divergent fix-it from AOTC onwards.]
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala & Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 138
Kudos: 453





	1. Padme I

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to my beta [Nadia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamara267)! All mistakes are mine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there is anything Padmé has learned from being a politician and a leader, it is to never promise what she cannot fulfill.

“What’s wrong, Ani?”

She has found him in the garage, tinkering with a broken shifter. Standing amidst scraps of metal and unassembled parts lying around, his back to her, Anakin seems so far away. Padmé would have understood if he has expressed grief, but what she senses from him is rage, and fear. And that same fear trickles down her spine, as well. She stands her ground. Anakin needs her, she thinks. He needs a friend, and she will comfort him in this vulnerable moment, as his touch has comforted her in her loneliness.

And then, he says, brokenly: “I... killed them.”

Her eyes widen. _No._ She hasn’t flinched when he threw the piece of metal he had in hand at the wall, but she does now.

“I killed them all.” Anakin continues. His voice is terribly steady, but lilting with question and realization, as if this is the first time he has faced the thought. “They’re dead. Every single one of them.” Padmé takes a step back, just the second before he turns around.

She sees the hurt on Anakin’s face. She knows he has seen her recoil, but she also knows that his anger has clouded his eyes to her reactions. _To be angry is to be human_ , she tells herself. Yet every part of her instincts is screaming at her to go, to leave, to let him be and save herself, because this is no longer vulnerability. This boy’s vulnerability has been shattered into a thousand shards of glass; with them he is going make himself bleed, and make the universe bleed with him.

If there is anything Padmé has learned from being a politician and a leader, it is to never promise what she cannot fulfill. It pains her to realize that it is not in her power to offer him the kind of consolation he wants.

His words glide past her. His voice grows in cadence and intensity, and she cannot fathom the truth he bellows. “...and the children, too,” he grits, as though he’s both daring her to challenge his decision and pleading for a reaction. As though the tears aren’t shining in his eyes; as though his conscience hasn’t already told him that it’s wrong. The tremor in his voice is still begging her to say otherwise. She cannot do that for him. “They were like animal—”

“Anakin—“

“—and I slaughtered them like _animals_.”

Padmé doesn’t wait for the rest. She turns around and runs like she has never run before. She can still hear his howl of anguish, and she has sympathy for him, she really does. But she isn’t repentant as the wind reels through her hair, when she catches herself thinking, _You are a wounded animal_. 

Anakin doesn’t come back for dinner. The Lars don’t ask Padmé any question, likely because she is a senator and they aren’t accustomed to politicians sharing their dinner table. The meal ends in silence, and the family returns to their respective rooms.

Padmé remains, seated on a bench by the door. Though she knows she is no more responsible for Anakin than they are, she feels guilty. After all, they are friends, and they have shared more than most friends do - they have shared a bed. She might’ve even harbored something soft and warm and new for him in her heart. That something is gone.

“Is something troubling you, Senator?”

She turns around at the soft voice. Beru Whitesun is rubbing at a frayed sleeve, fixing her with a concerned look. She has an honest face. Padmé will miss this kind of genuineness when she returns to the Senate.

“I’m alright,” she says. “Please don’t worry about me.”

“You’re waiting for Anakin, aren’t you?”

Beru calls him by first name, even though they’ve only known each other for a few days. Padmé lets out a quiet sigh, and nods. “He might need somebody to talk to when he comes back,” she says. “I don’t want him to feel… abandoned.” It’s a loaded statement, as heavy as the unspoken questions that hung over their dinner.

Beru doesn’t ask a thing. Her eyes soften. “He’s lucky to have you.” She bows curtly, and leaves. _He doesn’t_ , Padmé thinks. But she stays in wait, so troubled that sleep never comes to sway her, not once.

It’s past midnight when Padmé hears footsteps nearing the house. She stands up when his silhouette slips past the threshold. Anakin hangs his head, only glancing up sullenly when her movement catches his eyes. She steps towards him, sharply aware of her own cautiousness. He must be too.

“‘M sorry,” Anakin says, half-hearted at best, and Padmé’s heart squeezes.

“I don’t blame you for raising your voice, Ani.” She coaxes him towards the bench and he numbly sits down.

“What I’ve told you…”, he begins, and can’t seem to finish.

“—was true,” Padmé finishes it for him. “I know. And while it is deeply troubling, I want you to know that I don’t think lesser of you for it.” _You are still that little boy on Tatooine._ It’s not a lie.

His eyes flashes accusation at her. Then his gaze dulls, and he looks down at his hands. They are still stained with smudges of grease. There’s a weeping cut on his finger that he clearly hasn’t tended to. “I’m a Jedi,” he whispers, clinging to something fragile. “I know I’m better than this.”

Padmé nods, smoothing a hand on his back. Words seldom fail her this way.

—

The Geonosian language is full of clicks, glottal stops and guttural breaths. The Archduke’s mandibles flutter in the equivalent of what Padmé believes to be a smile.

_Your Jedi friend is waiting for you, my lady. Take them to the execution arena!_

Droids and guards flank them down long, dark corridors. The air gets colder as they, presumably, sink underground. They don’t say a word to each other. They don’t look at each other as they reached the cavernous space beneath the spires of the Petranaki Arena. The execution ground lies right beyond that door. Padmé pulls her shoulders back, squares her jaw. It isn’t until they step into the chariot that Anakin breaks the silence.

“Don’t be afraid,” he says. He sounds so earnest that it tugs at her heart. How young Anakin seems, at every turn. He is a dear friend, a brave Jedi no doubt, but he is still a boy, and she has led him straight into danger.

“I’m not afraid to die,” she answers, eyes ahead and chin high. All she sees outside is the light, blinding white. She has been confident she could resolve conflicts with diplomacy, should there be any. “I only regret for your life.”

Anakin seems to pause at that. “Why only mine?” His voice is quiet. It goes unsaid - _what about yours?_

Padmé only shakes her head and keeps herself from smiling sadly. She was eleven when the first assassination attempt on her played out; thirteen on the second; and the third one has been only a month ago. Death to her has always been a possibility, and she has grown to accept this. The chariots begin to move. She thinks it’s the end of it, until they toe the harsh line between the shade of the cave and scalding Geonosian sunlight, and Anakin whispers into the last wisp of silence, “I love you.” Righteousness shines in his eyes. He has uttered it with the determination of a person who has someone to live for. Someone important beyond words. Someone who will not be her, she knows it. She wishes for him to find that person someday. And so she says:

“So do I.”

They are rolled into the arena in a roar of sadistic cheers. Hard sunlight nearly makes her eyes water. Finding Obi-Wan chained to one of the column is a surprise, and an embarrassing one at that: instead of rescuing him, they’ve only just succeeded to join him in on the arena grounds. There’s no time to dwell on it; not when they’re fighting for their life. And for the Geonosians’ entertainment, she thinks, as the cheers all around the arena rattles her ears.

 _Perhaps not just my life._ She whips around as she swings her chains at the Lexu. Her gaze lands on Obi-Wan, who has snatched a polearm and is swinging it at the Acklay with more grace than a dancer. She ducks, and kicks, and catches Anakin out of the corner of her eyes, clutching the reins on top of a bucking Reek. The arena is suddenly shadowed. When she looks up, she sees Republic ships. _Perhaps for more._

All of a sudden, all around her are Jedi. They’re fighting alongside one another, and it matters not that she wields a heavy-duty blaster instead of a lightsaber - in this battle, they are one. She is on their side, she belongs amongst them, and the last thing she needs is her protection at their detriment.

Besides, the brand new troopers - that she doesn’t recognize, yet - wield blaster guns too.

—

Part of being a stateswoman is that you simply do not rest. Padmé remembers being given emergency first-aid while the ship was on its course, and then ushered into the Halls of Healing as soon as they were back at the Temple. She hasn’t slept a wink during the trip. Her nights in the healing ward have been fitful for the entire week; she never seems to manage more than three hours at a time without jolting awake. How can she sleep when a war has been declared right over her head?

It’s another of those morning where Padmé finds it futile to try going back to bed. She leaves her bed and stands by the window. The Coruscanti sky is a uniform wash of blue, the kind where daylight invades darkness rather than dilutes it. Vivid pink peeks at the horizon. The colors are striking, almost too saturated; as sharp as the cut lines of all the buildings. She misses the vast arc of Nabooian skies, the depth in its tameness.

"Padmé."

 _Anakin._ She turns around, plasters on a smile. She almost feels bad that she is too worn to even smile genuinely; she mourns the time when she would simply, naturally relax at just the sight of him. Now he is tangled with her fragmented guilt, and he is yet another, very tangible, reminder of her limited power in dealing with other people’s suffering. Anakin is dressed in a hospital shift, as is she. He seems slightly unmoored, reminiscent of how he has looked on that fateful day on Tatooine. He stands in the doorway as if he's not sure there is a way in, despite the determination no etched in the line of his mouth.

“Ani.” She tilts her head, and shifts to the side, wordlessly inviting him to stand beside her by the window. He clearly wants to talk, that much she can see. He takes her offer and steps in. His elbow brushes against hers, and there’s a gaping emptiness below his bandaged forearm. She doesn’t mention it. Shoulder to shoulder, they look on the Coruscanti sunrise. 

“I meant it,” Anakin says, seemingly out of nowhere. She looks up at him, puzzled but patient. “When we were on Geonosis. I said, I love you. I meant it then, and I mean it now. I love you, Padmé.” When she says nothing, he continues. “And you said...”

“You are very dear to me, Ani. You are one of the few people I can truly call a friend, and I cherish you as such.”

“But I thought...” He falters. He stares at her. He is obviously hurt. Padmé feels guilty again - that she has phrased it ambiguously on purpose. She stays silent to let him continue. “I thought we— could— We could make a family together.”

“Anakin, we’ve talked about this, remember?” She says, gently. “We have both decided that it’s not wise, if not impossible, to maintain any semblance of a relationship.”

“It was different. We stared death in the face on Geonosis and we survived.” Anakin’s frustration is almost visible, like a wisp of steam. “There’s no reason why our love can’t.”

Padmé bites her lip, steels herself. “I’m deeply fond of you, Anakin, but I’m not in love with you.”

“It didn’t seem like so when we were in the arena!” Anakin’s voice booms in the small healing ward. He catches her startled gaze, and he seems embarrassed, but not enough to back off. “You were honest then, Padmé, because you thought you were going to die.”

“No, Ani,” she shakes her head. “It’s because I wanted you to live.”

Silence falls upon them. It’s never easy, isn’t it? Rejection is no easier for her than it is for him, she is sure. She understands how much hardship Anakin has had to face in his life; she cannot claim to know how children born to slavery are treated, how losing a mother might feel like. But she cannot claim to empathize with someone who has committed a massacre on innocent women and children either. It puts a dagger in her to know that the truth in her words has, without a doubt, hurt Anakin. Look at him, the way his shoulders hunch, the way his eyes cast down, the way his lips purse. He is a boy still. They may have lain together, but now he is nothing more to her than a little brother, that she so wishes she could protect. She can’t. It’s not her place, nor is it in her power.

“I understand,” he says, finally. He smiles when he looks back at her, and Padmé returns it. He is in pain, but he will heal. As does everyone.

“It’s for the best. You are a Jedi, after all. And you don’t even like politicians, come on,” she squeezes his arm, and he shoulders her back. Their huffed breaths begin to sound like laughter. Before them, the sun has fully risen above the horizon.

—

Padmé has another visitor the next day.

“Senator Amidala,” Obi-Wan Kenobi greets her, accent crisp, tone neutral, manners courteous. His formality makes it feel like she is dealing in diplomacy, which puts her at ease.

“Master Kenobi,” she dips her head in a small nod. She is feeling far better today, and very much ready to leave Coruscant. There are important matters waiting for her to settle on Naboo - a new draft bill, a public event for which she must writes a speech, and so much more. Which is to say, she is undeniably weary for another conversation.

And from the looks of it, so is Obi-Wan. He is surprisingly kempt for someone who has been confined to the Halls of Healing for ten days: hair combed back and beard smoothed down in a way that makes its overgrown length less noticeable. Then again, it’s not that surprising, considering this is, after all, Obi-Wan Kenobi. But even he can do little about the lines under his eyes and the sickly pallor he sports. It strikes Padmé that perhaps he means to say something important.

“It might be abrupt of me to get to the point, Senator, and I apologize. What I would like to discuss concerns my Padawan.”

“Not at all, Master Kenobi. Please take a seat.” There are chairs and no table. That will have to do for now. “What is the matter?”

“You know as well as I do that Anakin has begun his Jedi training under unconventional circumstances. He has spent far more time in a civilian community as a child than any of the initiates in the Order.” Obi-Wan gives a deliberate, almost rehearsed pause. “His situation is unique.”

“I am aware of all this, Master Kenobi. Thank you for reminding me,” Padmé says, in the gentlest of tones.

“Then you must also be aware that attachment still comes to him easily - which is a failing of mine, as his Master.” He folds one hand over the other. His voice, Padmé notes, is less that of the Negotiator and more of a concerned guardian. “Senator Amidala, your presence in his early childhood has left a deep impression in him. If I may observe… He is fond of you.”

“As I am of him. We have become good friends over the past months.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t appear outwardly doubtful, but his silence can’t be anything but. Whether he is doubting her or Anakin, she can’t be sure. Perhaps both; or perhaps neither. “For that I am glad,” he says, and then his tone of voice slides into something more… quiet. Thicker with sentiments. “Healthy connections in life are both inevitable and desirable. However, Anakin feels deeply, and I worry that he might surpass the threshold of friendship.”

Padmé observes him for a few quiet moments. “You are perhaps afraid that Anakin has fallen in love with me.”

“Senator, in no way do I intend this to be an accusation—”

“Please do not worry, Master Kenobi. I understand the point you’re making. I assure you…” She pauses. There are so many ways she could put this diplomatically, but Obi-Wan is also a bit of a diplomat himself. He knows some tricks in the book, and it would be a little discourteous to pretend he doesn't. She considers telling the full truth of their short-lived liaison. She’s not afraid of being blunt. Her only concern is Anakin; it seems a betrayal of his trust if she discloses a rejection to someone else without his knowledge. “...that I shall keep a respectful distance, close friends or not. I will be delicate, but firm, with him.” _I already did._

Obi-Wan looks at her with cautious gratitude. “Thank you for your understanding, then,” he says finally, and Padmé nods. She feels doubt lingering in the air, just not directed at her. “In that case, I shall not trouble you any longer.”

He rises to leave. It’s only when he’s reached the door that Padmé makes her decision. She calls out to him. “Obi-Wan, wait.”

Obi-Wan’s posture stiffens ever so slightly. He turns around, gracious. “Yes, Senator Amidala?”

“Something happened on Tatooine; something grim. I wasn’t there to witness. It has to do with his mother’s death. You need to know.” Simple words for a simple truth. “I can’t tell you, but I trust that Ani will tell you in time.”

Obi-Wan remains silent for a few moments. “One should hope,” he says, very quietly, before bowing his head in a wordless greeting. He leaves the room. Even the echoes of his footsteps ring lonesome.


	2. Anakin II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin holds onto his Master’s hand a millisecond longer than the test requires.

The room smells of bacta and disinfectant. The marble floor, wall columns and tall windows make it seem more like part of the Temple than a sterile operation room, but that doesn’t change what it is. Anakin is dressed in only a tabard and settled in a padded chair, his right arm snugly strapped onto a metal tray. A cybernetic arm gleams golden just centimeters away from his newly healed stump. The prosthetic is a skeletal contraption of metal and twisting wires. He ducks down slightly to take a peek at the neural interface that would soon be fitted to his flesh.

Obi-Wan sighs. Anakin turns his head to the side, ostensibly to bare his neck for the medical droid to implant a sensor chip there, but in truth it’s to shoot him a look. “You don’t need to be here, Master.” Another needle punctures his upper arm, inserting the second chip. “I can handle this on my own.”

“Oh I’m sure,” Obi-Wan says, meeting his eyes with a minute smile. “But what’s to say the operation can handle you, hm?” His eyes flick back to watching the medical droids again, rapt, and Anakin knows for a fact it’s not out of curiosity. His master is either concerned or guilty, or both, and that look has never sit right with Anakin. Obi-Wan blames himself often. And sure, occasionally it’s really his fault, but most of the time Anakin would rather take the _I’m-not-angry-just-disappointed_ look ten times over.

The prosthetic specialist taps a final button on the control panel, and turns back to Anakin. Her name, as she introduced, is Mai-Hoa; she’s a tall, professorial woman with the hands of a surgeon, the eyes of a mechanic, and the voice of a contralto. She smiles. “Your Master is right, young Skywalker. It is always better to be accompanied for this sort of procedure.”

A third sensor chip is installed into his chest, in the pectoralis major. A second droid lights up, and the mechanical limb begins to slide towards his arm. Anakin feels the press of metal and synth-net sensor pads, moving and molding around the shape of the healed stump. A metal band follows; he notices it’s lined with a rubbery, more yielding material when it is secured around the junction between prosthetic and flesh. “Is it too tight, Padawan Skywalker?” The droid asks him, as it begins to turn a screw on the band. It is fascinating to watch, and for a moment he forgets it’s being done on his own body.

“It needs to be tight enough,” Mai-Hoa cautions. “You should feel it press snug against your skin, but not so much that it cuts circulation.”

Anakin nods. “It’s alright.” He can feel the Force within the material beginning to resonate with his own signature. This is no ordinary metal, he suddenly realizes. This is the same material used to build lightsabers. It also reacts to Force users, albeit not in a direct flow the way kyber crystals do. The metal connects slower, like the difference between the swift glide of a lift tube and the analog movements of climbing stairs.

“That’s right,” the specialist says, as if answering to his thought. Anakin looks up at her questioningly. She only smiles back at him. “Using the Force to aid the movements is possible and encouraged, especially for precision. However, we will start basic, first. The motors react to your muscle contractions. Try moving your thumb - I will let you figure out how.”

Anakin does. The movement seems weak, so he does it again. Then Mai-Hoa tells him to fold his palm, close his hand in a fist then open it again. Finally, she waves at the medical droid. The strappings on his arm are peeled open. Anakin straightens, lifts his arm from the elbow, closing his eyes for a moment in focus. He feels the mechno-hand in the Force, coaxing its dim, non-sentient presence towards him. Slowly, he closes his hand, curling his fingers one after the other, pinky to index.

“Good job, Anakin,” his master says from the side. Without thinking, Anakin turns to him with a smile. He catches Obi-Wan’s awed look, and has to glance away before his heart thumps too loudly again.

“The servos are very strong, Skywalker. You must take care not to use too much force with that hand.”

“I understand.”

Anakin can’t feel much when he sets his hand down again on the arm of the chair, merely the dull knowledge that an extension of his body has touched something. His fingertips register the material in a muffled manner, as if there is a duraplast wall between the sensation and his perception. Other than that, there is no feeling in the barebone palm. 

“Alright, now we shall test sensations.” A droid straps his arm down again, palm up. A thin screwdriver reaches in to open a small window right below the wrist. Anakin watches tiny cranes grip and connect certain sets of wires on the circuit. Something activates, and he feels his nerves light up.

The specialist seems pleased. She tilts her head to Obi-Wan. “May I request your assistance? The sensation test is better to begin with an organic touch.”

Obi-Wan gives such a gracious smile that Anakin nearly forgets that he - like himself, like most everyone else who isn’t a specialist - knows next to nothing about bionic prosthesis. He expects his master to ask Mai-Hoa how to proceed. Instead, Obi-Wan simply reaches over and takes Anakin’s hand firmly in both of his own.

 _It’s warm._ His fingers curl down naturally over the back of Obi-Wan’s hand. He can feel the calluses on Obi-Wan’s palms, the firm curve of his cradling hand. It’s almost heartwrenchingly familiar, calling back to his earlier training, when his master would hold his hand to correct his grip. He stores this first human touch to the mechno-hand along with his other cherished memories.

“Excellent.” Mai-Hoa beams at them. Anakin holds onto his Master’s hand a millisecond longer than the test requires.

—

“Kark—”

Too late. The mug is now two dozen tiny ceramic shards lying about on the ground in a puddle of caf. Anakin groans. _This is the kriffing third one already._ He goes to fetch the trash can, quelling the urge to just use the Force.

He crouches down and picks up the broken shards piece by piece with his mechno-hand. The movements are fluid enough, and the sensations feel quite real. It would have been perfect if it isn’t for the fact that the servos are so Force-damnedly strong. There is no other way, he knows. He knows how to take the hand apart and replace the servos, but he doesn’t have anything to replace it with. His are already the most recent pieces of technology.

He has been modifying the hand, still. The original skeleton didn’t have much of a body to it; now, the spindly core has been wrapped with alloy ligament. Between that and the layer of platinum mock-plating, the arm is still hollow. It needs to be bulked with a proper weight, and more resistant plating. Rather than the pristine storefronts that he can shop in nowadays, Anakin pictures the Lower Levels of Coruscant. Scavenging has become almost a thing of the past these days, as he’s more often offworld than not. Anakin had been scouring for parts and motorboards since he was about ten: too young to have a credit to his name and too proud to ask Obi-Wan for some. For the longest of times - that is to say, for about a year (a year is long when you are ten), he was convinced that his master thinks of his tinkering hobby as a ridiculous waste of time. Then when Obi-Wan discovered the tiny power monitor installed in his room, fourteen-year-old Anakin had expected a stern tell-off. What he got instead was an impressed _“Did you build this yourself?”_ followed by a proud smile when he’d said yes. Obi-Wan rested a hand on his shoulder then, his eyes crinkled. Anakin would do anything to hear it again, that tone of voice when his master murmured, _“Brilliant, Anakin”_.

The door slides open. At once Anakin recognizes the gentle footfall to be his master’s gait. He suppresses a groan, quickly floating all of the ceramic shards into a bin. The last thing he wants is for Obi-Wan to find out he can’t even manage to hold a mug properly.

“Anakin, may I come in?”

Anakin snatches a rag from the counter to mop the floor. “One minute, Master.” The trash can skitters on the floor as he Force-pushes it back into place, lid shut. “Just, just take a seat.”

He pops out of the kitchenette after he’s done, immediately catching sight of Obi-Wan with his hair all combed back and robes ironed out. How can anyone look so crisp and neat this early in the morning, anyway? Suddenly Anakin is very aware of his half-tied undertunic.

He sits down and wills himself not to care. It’s easy; he’s already in a foul mood, thanks to the broken mug. “So, what are you doing here, Master?”

“You’ve been missing your daily physical therapy sessions,” Obi-Wan begins, and Anakin winces. “It’s been reported to me that you never came at your designated time after day three. You’re not a child anymore, Anakin. I don’t want to undermine your autonomy, but this is a matter of—”

 _Yet another lecture._ “It was a waste of time,” Anakin cuts in, defensive. “I don’t like it. It’s repetitive. All I ever do is flex my hand. It won’t help me.”

Obi-Wan arcs a brow. “Wouldn’t it? Are you suddenly a prosthetic specialist now, Padawan?”

“Are you suddenly the one with a metal hand now, _Master_ ?”, Anakin snaps. He regrets it immediately. Yet he speaks on. “I should’ve said it _doesn’t_ help then. You don’t know what it’s like! They're wasting my time. I want to hold my lightsaber again, not learning to count on my fingers!”

His voice echoes back, ringing in his ears. Anakin sags, scowling in sullen silence. He feels hot around the ears, behind his eyes, like he has a fever.

“Anakin…” Obi-Wan’s voice is too gentle for his liking. But Anakin deigns to look up, guilty as he is for lashing out. “Is that what you’ve been doing instead? Training with your right hand?”

Anakin hesitates. He looks down, running a finger over the powering cell on his wrist. “I have,” he admits, and hastily adds, “with both hands. I just want them to match. I don’t… I don’t want to sit around. There’s a war, and I should be fighting, but I’m stuck here.” He sighs. “I don’t even know if I’ve made progress with this… thing.” _I can’t even pick up a kriffing mug of caf without breaking it._

“You’ve been practicing on your own,” Obi-Wan draws his conclusion. He reaches over, placing a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. Genuine reassurance and comprehension flit through their bond. “I apologize. I’ve been neglecting your needs beyond rehabilitation.”

Anakin shrugs. He doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t wants sympathy, but it’s not sympathy. It’s just… Obi-Wan. Eventually, he cools down, sheepishly pushing an apology towards his Master’s side of the bond. “Sorry I yelled at you.”

This earns him a soft laugh. “I only hope you didn’t use up all of your energy for that.”

Anakin knows that voice. Knows that twinkle of mirth in Obi-Wan’s eyes. He has to smile. “You’ve got something in mind, Master?”

“How about a good sparring match?” Obi-Wan smiles back.

  
  


The common dojo is situated a floor below the Padawan’s dojo. It’s one of the most ancient rooms in the Temple, there since the beginning, witnessing the extensions of halls and additions of buildings and housing quarters. It’s plain and classic, in stark contrast to the hexagonal floor and dome-like structure of the Padawan’s dojo. The ceiling is still high, but there are no skyward porthole windows, nor illustrations of the forms and cadences hanging along the walls. There is space for an audience. Of course, no one is there. It’s just them today.

They stand, three strides away from each other, master and apprentice. They hold up their lightsabers and ignite in perfect synchronization. The hum of the blades fill the room, chiming in with the nervous energy that buzzes through Anakin. Obi-Wan’s face is half illuminated in soft blue. Both their shields are rammed up, and they will have to rely on their own perception rather than the other’s openness to their training bond.

Their blades swing down in calm, identical arcs. They bow their head once. The match begins.

Obi-Wan falls into the opening stance of Soresu, defensive and utterly graceful. Anakin lowers his center, one knee bent, his two-handed grip balancing at ear level. He opens with a slash, expecting a counter strike. Obi-Wan sidesteps him instead, and Anakin slashes into thin air. His master moves behind his back, blade cutting through the air towards him. Anakin regains balance just enough to turn around. Blue clashes against blue, sparking.

“Close one,” Obi-Wan remarks, unruffled. Blades scrape and glide as Anakin pushes away completely, jumping back. His right grip is awkward, but he refuses to bring it up, lest Obi-Wan goes easy on him.

They circle each other, amicable, intent. They rush at each other again with a smile and a dare in their eyes. Thrusts are redirected, strikes blocked; they jump over low strokes and duck high slashes, and aim and miss and aim again. Where Anakin pushes, Obi-Wan pulls, directs his force elsewhere, disrupts his momentum, upends his balance. Where Obi-Wan parries, Anakin presses, grinds, peeks and peers until he catches a crack in his Master’s defense. They urge one another on with their voice, with their gaze, with a flick of the wrist, a jerk of the chin, a twirl of the lightsaber. Time and time again they would meet halfway, blade on blade and smile to smile; only to then hop back, crouch down, somersault on the ground to pull themselves on their feet again. _Footwork, Anakin_ or _Guard your chest_ , Obi-Wan would remind him sometimes. His hair is out of place, splaying over sweat-beaded brows. Anakin tears his eyes away from the coppery sheen of his Master’s hair, and raises his saber for the next blow.

They dance across the floor as plasma sizzles through the air. It’s a slow dance, as the aim is to be mindful of techniques, not to show them off. There are the usual rules of practice matches with real lightsabers. The blades are never to touch your opponent. Points are awarded based on where you succeed to aim. Head, you win. Neck or chest, three points; limbs, two; back, one. Anakin counts their points in his mind. They are evenly matched, for now. Obi-Wan fights with the prudence of an oracle and the distance of a marksman. Anakin prefers to be direct. He leaps high and charges down like a hawk. Obi-Wan meets him easily. Their clashing blades crackle and whirr. Bursts of sound and light, irregular, dots their match like fireworks.

His muscles begin to tire. His right upper arm spasms with the added effort of delicately guiding the prosthetic. Their scores add up. They are both still sparring, matching slash for slash. Obi-Wan seems entirely at ease, expression unchanged despite the subtle sheen of sweat on his brows. Still with his remarks and cautions, _Don’t keep your wrists too stiff_ here and _Distribute your force_ there. Anakin lets out a cry of frustration when his fourth strike in a row is caught in a parry. Obi-Wan’s blade glides towards the lightsaber hilt in Anakin’s hand and wrench it to the opposite side. Anakin only scrapes back enough to avoid being disarmed. They are less than an arm’s length apart. Anakin is burning.

“Perhaps we might better—” Obi-Wan begins, taking a serene step backwards, and Anakin shouts, “No!”

He spins, aiming at Obi-Wan from the side. He aims for the head, the end-all of the match. He can do this, right? A mechno-hand shouldn’t hamper him. His shoulders shake, and he strikes without inhibition.

_...very strong. You must take care not to use too much force…_

Three mugs have been broken. The first time, Anakin has set it down so hastily that it smashes against the counter. The second, he has absentmindedly pushed it across the table, only for it to slide right off the edge and shatter on the floor. The third time - this morning - he has grasped it so tightly that it burst in his palm. He’d used all of his force, unthinking.

He’s doing it again.

_Oh no, oh wait, I didn’t mean to—_

“Master!”

Anakin smells something burn. He focuses his eyes, heart beating in his throat. _What… have I done?_ His hand flexes empty. His lightsaber lays deactivated and cooling on the floor, amidst locks of coppery hair. Obi-Wan rises from the ground, running a hand through his hair. A chunk has been singed, along with the topmost part of his tunic’s collar. Anakin searches for any sign of an injury. It’s no easy job when he’s avoiding his Master’s eyes at the same time.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. His face burns. He would take back the last few seconds if he could; would not be so out of control, would not fail so terribly at keeping this damned durasteel thing in check. He could’ve shown himself, and shown Obi-Wan especially, that he’s ready to come back to the battlefield. Force knows how long it would be until the Council decides to send Obi-Wan on a solo mission, away from him.

Obi-Wan retrieves his lightsaber. Anakin looks up, unwilling. His arms hang useless at his side, and his feet might have been made of lead. He tries to anticipate what kind of lecture he’s going to be given right now - not that he _cares_ to listen, anyway, but it’s the least he could do, since he’d almost—

A hand sets on his right shoulder, squeezes down in a kind gesture. The hefty press of his lightsaber returns to his palm, along with the familiar warmth of Obi-Wan’s fingers.

“Well done,” his Master says.

Anakin blinks. “I nearly killed you?”

“It will take far more than that to kill me, my Padawan, and you know it.” Obi-Wan smiles. “It was a match well fought. You lost focus in the last few moments, but so did I, hence our accident. And you did manage to land your blow to my head. That qualifies for victory.”

Anakin tightens his grasp on the lightsaber, staring at the flush of exertion on Obi-Wan’s face. Obi-Wan doesn’t question his gaze.

“I will train with you from now on, parallel to your physical therapy.” Silence hangs between them, until Obi-Wan makes to pull back with a casual, “I assure you, Anakin, you have been making progress.”

Anakin covers his hand with his free one. _Wait_ , he mouths. He finds his Master’s eyes, speechless. Obi-Wan looks at him, equally wordless, but the corners of his eyes are crinkled and his lips upturned just so.

“I think,” Anakin says, when he’s able to say it. All this time, and Obi-Wan hasn’t pulled away. “I think it’s time for my session in the healing ward.”

Obi-Wan’s laughter is melodious.

—

Sunlight lines the corridor, soft and muffled. Out of the corner of his eyes, Anakin glimpses the dense stream of speeders and shuttleships, weaving back and forth in the morning sky. Coruscanti traffic is always so busy, even this early in the day. His own lone footsteps echo back to him as Anakin makes his way to Obi-Wan’s quarters.

As usual, he enters with barely more than a knock. Obi-Wan sits by the table, hand over his beard, frowning over a datapad. His profile is backlit, glowing at the edges. His teacup is empty, but a wisp of steam still filters up from the teapot. He glances up when Anakin has stood there long enough and beckons him in, and Anakin thinks, _What is it about him today?_

It takes him a few seconds to register the difference. “You cut your hair, Master.”

Obi-Wan blinks. He pushes the datapad aside and picks up the teapot to pour Anakin one. “I did. It was getting in the way. Now, if your aesthetic concerns are out of the way—“

“I like it.”

Obi-Wan’s brows shoot up. Anakin snickers, and his Master only sighs. “Why, that’s kind of you, Anakin. Have you anything else to comment on?”

“No. Do you?”

“Nice job on the plating,” Obi-Wan follows up seamlessly, gesturing at his arm. Anakin stares back at him in surprise. A smile spreads across his face. Golden fingers curl gently around delicate ceramic. The cup has warmed up fairly quickly, and that’s… all he can think about. “The healers told me you have made immense progress, and I cannot be prouder. You must know why I risked your morning mood to call you here so early?”

Anakin laughs this time. “No, Master. I don’t, actually.”

“We have been assigned a mission, my Padawan.”


	3. Anakin III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All that sacrifice, and a whisper of your name is all you’ll have left._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Angst ahead. Depiction of grief and mourning; presumed major character death; and Palpatine.

“You must evacuate the troops.” The hologram flickers. For a fraction of a second, the shadow on the Supreme Chancellor’s face deepens, darkens. The transmission crackles. The rain is roaring outside, eroding the earth, eating away the whirrs of even the noisiest engines. Thunder booms across the stormy skies of Jabiim. 

“I can’t leave my friends here,” Anakin protests. The Masterless Padawans have spent the past week trudging through rain-soaked lands together. They’re weak, hungry, weary, their bodies are covered in scrapes and cuts and bruises, and they bicker and fight but underneath it all, they share the same grief. All the nights they’ve spent devising strategies, all the moments they spend bickering - and now he can’t even fight alongside them till the last moment like he has promised to? Now he has to climb on a Republic vessel and fly back to Coruscant like some sort of coward.

“Your kind heart will never be forgotten, my boy,” the Chancellor replies, his brows drawn. Worry plagues him, Anakin can see. There’s a struggle in him too. The Chancellor has made no secret of the fact that he also is only human. “But the Republic needs your help. I’ve always trusted you.”

“But my Master…”

“Your Master? It was reported to me that Master Kenobi has been missing in action since the bombing of the Shelter Base… is he not?”

Anakin grits his teeth and sets his jaw, nodding stiffly. _Missing in action_ . The familiar tightness coils in his throat, stinging the inside of his nose, threatens to rise to his eyes and well up in an unbecoming display of weakness. Everybody knows what missing in action is supposed to mean. Anakin refuses to even consider the connotation. Obi-Wan has to be under the rubbles somewhere, buried in decimated concrete and smashed durasteel, but _alive_ . Their bonds still shine, faintly so. _I can’t leave my master here. I have to find him, I have to, I_ have _to._ “Chancellor Palpatine, I... They’ll die without me.”

“They’ll die with or without you, Anakin.” And isn’t it a ghastly thing to say? But the Chancellor is a wise man; he knows a thing or two about sacrifice, and so do the Jedi. 

Aubrie, the promising healer of their pack, Padawan-to-be of Master Windu, lays a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. “He’s right, Anakin.” She smiles at him. “You must live. For the rest of us.”

Who else can understand the hurt of a Masterless Padawan better than another Masterless Padawan? And now he is going to lose them too. He feels so alone, like a cog ripped out of clockwork. The pain has spiraled past the point of numbness. _Master, if you can see me now..._

Anakin breathes out shakily, and nods.

The rain batters down on him, running down his face, dripping from his chin. His eyes sting, because of the winds. The air is so humid it’s hard to breathe. It’s just rain and winds, that’s all. But the rainstorm doesn’t explain why his lower lip quivers, why his chest constricts painfully with every sob. The rainstorm doesn’t explain why Anakin hears his own hot blood pulsing in his ears when he sees the Loyalists bundling up before the newly docked Republic vessel. The rainstorm cannot explain why he has Force-held the Jabiimi leader back by the throat when the soldiers refused to stand down. Loyalists, Separatists, they can all go to the seventh Sith hell and down under. _Haven’t I given enough for your mad civil war already? Can’t you see what I’ve lost?_ He wants to scream. He doesn’t. He’s cold and composed as can be, the way… the way Obi-Wan would want him to be.

It’s still raining. It’s always raining on Jambiin.

“Sir?”, asks a trooper.

Anakin rests his head against the metal of the door. The ship has taken off. He usually likes being in the sky - flying is the closest thing he has to total freedom. Now? Now he’s just caged midair. His eyes have dried. He should be reaching into the Force, should release his pain. He doesn’t; he can’t. Grieving is wrong because he is a Jedi. But not grieving feels like a betrayal. How dare the planets still turn? How dare there still be laughter in the galaxy when his Master is abandoned somewhere in the rubbles? How dare _Anakin_ be here when he could have been tearing up the duracrete block by block until he at least retrieves Obi-Wan’s body?

The clone persists. “The Supreme Chancellor would like a status report…”

“Tell him it’s over. The battle of Jabiim is over. And we lost,” Anakin croaks. “We all lost.”

—

Against the dark of the night, the People of the New Holstice’s memorial is a tower made of light. Its blue-white glow spreads across the entire ground, gracing tear marks and wet lashes with a peaceful glimmer. From afar, it seems solid. Up close, it’s hundreds upon hundreds of glowing, fluttering, immortal wings. Each memory moth carries a Jedi’s whispered name, enshrining their memory for eternity.

 _All that sacrifice, and a whisper of your name is all you’ll have left._ Anakin feels a lulling ripple in the Force, like the very soft swing of a cradle. His heart is too heavy for a lullaby. He wonders if he can hear Qui-Gon’s name in here. Has Obi-Wan ever stood in this very spot? Was his heart also too heavy for a lullaby?

The container in his hand shines like a lantern. Anakin opens it. The first moth flutters, its light flickering against his palm. 

“Kass Tod,” he whispers the first name.

_You fought bravely. You spoke up and spoke the harsh truth when everyone was too wearied to. Without you and your strategy, we would have been goners from day one. Rest in peace, Kass._

“Mak Lotor.”

_You were going to pass the trials and become a Knight. I could see why. You were level headed. You looked out for everyone’s back. You were in love with Kass and she loved you back. Now you both are one with the Force. Rest in peace, Mak._

“Tae Diath.”

_Your gift for psychopathy troubled you. Especially around me. You knew how it felt to have too much noise in your head, and you’ve heard the noises in mine. I would have liked to know you better. Rest in peace, Tae._

“Elora Sund.”

_You were the wisest among us. You were so kind. I have never met a Padawan with a mind so serene. I would believe you if you said you had read half the Archives. Your friendship with Tae was incredible and enviable. Rest in peace, Elora._

“Vaabesh.”

_You were always on the frontline. You joined me when I fixed our devices. We shared ideas about droid upgrade and reprogramming. We could have been closer friends. Rest in peace, Vaabesh._

“Windo “Warble” Nend.”

_You talked as much as the rest of us combined. Your stories kept up our spirits. You said you would become a crèchemaster if you weren’t knighted. You would have made a good one. Rest in peace, Warble._

“Zule Xiss.”

_You were the rudest, brashest Padawan I have ever met. You were also the most compassionate. I remember your fevers when you lost your arm. I promised you to plate your mechanical arm when we came back. I couldn’t anymore. Rest in peace, Zule._

“Aubrie Wyn.”

_Your gift for healing saved us all. You were so bright in the Force. You were the pride of all the Generals and the Masters. Master Windu would have been proud to have you as his Padawan. I would have been proud to go on a mission with you, as Knights together, someday. Rest in peace, Aubrie._

One last moth remains in the glass container. Anakin cups a hand over the fragile wings. Tears run down his face in warm, overlapping tracks. There’s no rain to cover them this time. He sets his jaws, else he’d let out a sob, a cry, a howl, something unbecoming of a Jedi. He wishes this pain is something physical, a boulder or a droid. He can slice through boulders and droids with a plasma blade. He can’t cut pain. He can’t fight pain when he doesn’t want to let go.

_Master, I can still feel our bond._

_It’s thinning, but I can feel your signature._

The moth clings to his palm as if in wait. 

_I should have gone to the base at once, to search for you. No, I should have been there from the start. If the fire is to take you, so let it take me as well. I should have been by your side, never let you out of sight. A Padawan’s duty is to protect. Why am I never to do what I am meant for?_

_I’ve failed you. I have only known you for ten years. It’s too short, Master. I still had so much to learn from you. I still want to tell you… so much. I was such a fool._

_I’m sorry, Master. I’m no good. I’m not ready. Can you hear me? I want to hear you, one last time. Please._

There is nothing on the other side.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi,” whispers Anakin. The moth whispers back and flies away, to join the flickering swirls of the memorial.

_Rest in peace, Obi-Wan._

The Battle of Jabiim has been declared a success, regardless.

Anakin feels little. He confines himself to the hangar or the technical rooms, busies himself with every last droid that has been reported as malfunctioning. He’s one step short of taking them apart and putting them back together at this point, desperate to keep his hands busy and his mind empty. On Jabiim, nearly every waking minute was spent deflecting blaster bolts and reducing droids to scrap metal. When they weren’t fighting, they were dragging their feet on muddy ground, under the full force of Jambiini rainstorms. All of it is gone now, and Anakin is left to the echoes in his own head.

He sees Obi-Wan everywhere. When his lightsaber accidentally clacks to the ground. When his Padawan braid catches into his clothing in a gentle tug. When he gathers a shucked Jedi cloak from the ground. On his way to his own quarters, he has to pass by Obi-Wan’s. When he was younger, he used to do his homework in there, whether or not Obi-Wan was off world. Sometimes he would stay late into the night and fall asleep. Sometimes he would wake up with a blanket draped on him, laced with scent and traces of signature that were distinctly Obi-Wan’s. It feels like yesterday.

Anakin sets down the micro-screwdriver in his hand and wipes his eyes with his sleeve.

A shuttle touches down in the hangar. He doesn’t pay attention to it, even as the door opens and footsteps clacked against the floor. And then a shadow towers over him, and Anakin looks up from where he sits.

“The Supreme Chancellor would like to personally meet you, Master Skywalker,” the secretary says. _I’m a Padawan_ , Anakin thinks. All Jedi are masters to civilians; and all Jedi Masters are valued, and yet somehow nobody in the entire Temple seems to give a _damn_ about his late Master.

He lets his feet carry him across the vast, gleaming halls of the Senate building complex and enters the Chancellor’s office in a trance. Palpatine stands by the great transparisteel window, a lone silhouette looking down on the vast capital city of Coruscant.

“Ah, here you are, my boy,” the Chancellor turns around at the sound of his footsteps. “Sit down, sit down. Make yourself at home.”

 _Home._ It tugs down the corners of his mouth like a cruel joke. Anakin bows his head, blinking rapidly. “Good afternoon, Chancellor.”

“I am ever happy to see you again. I wish to personally thank and congratulate you for bringing the troops back safely from Jabiim.” The kindly old man approaches his desk. His face contorts into an expression of worry. “Is something the matter, Anakin?”

“I’m alright, Chancellor.” Anakin sets his jaws. “I only… It’s been rather— strange. Not to have a Master.”

“My dear boy, I know you’ve been grieving,” the Chancellor says, kind and warm. He rises from behind his desk again, in favor of standing by Anakin’s seat, and sets a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Two tragedies, one so close after the other. I am truly sorry for your losses, Anakin. No one should have to suffer so darkly, least of all you.”

Nobody has so much as shared his grief. Master Yoda, Master Windu, Master Mundi, Master Hett… They all told him to be _proud_ that Obi-Wan is now one with the Force. And here’s the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic, saying that he is sorry. Suddenly he finds it hard to breathe.

“It’s all my fault, both times,” Anakin blurts. “If I found Mom sooner, I could have saved her. And if I were… if I were…” He looks down, lips pressed into a thin line.

Palpatine gives his arm a small pat, and sits in the chair beside him. “Now don’t you say such things. You deserve to feel joy for your achievements, Anakin. It pains me to see you so tormented.”

“It’s nothing, Chancellor. I’m a Jedi.”

“I have no doubt. You’ve proven yourself time and time again. But is it nothing? You have spent the better part of your life with Master Kenobi, Anakin. It would have been cruel to fault you for missing him.”

Those are the words he didn’t dare to voice himself. “I miss him,” Anakin nods, brows furrowed. His eyes are watering up so fast. It’s harder to hold back when he’s allowed not to. Chancellor Palpatine wouldn’t want him to berate himself for something so human, as he so says, so often.

“The three of us have spent some time together, I recall,” the Chancellor continues, thoughtful. Anakin nods again, a pathetic noise in his throat. “Master Kenobi is one of the shrewdest Jedi I have ever had the honor to meet. How I wish I could have known him more.”

“So do I, Chancellor.” Anakin takes in a shuddering breath. Through the blur in his eyes, he sees Palpatine also looking down. _Force, is he also crying?_ Anakin clears his throat. “I… could still feel our training bond. I might— I might be the last person who could have done something to find him. But I’ve...” He wipes the heel of his hand across his eyes, vigorously. “I’ve done nothing.”

“Anakin, my son,” Palpatine says, appalled. “That is quite significant. Have you spoken of this to the Jedi Council?”

Anakin goes quiet. The remnant of a training bond is not enough for them to deploy resources to find a single lost Jedi. And who would take the word of a Padawan for it anyway?

The Chancellor softens. “I trust you, Anakin. I would gladly provide you with the means to search for your Master’s,” he lowers his voice, tone tinted with pain, “remains.”

Anakin’s head snaps up. “You… You would?”

“Yes. I have personal ships that you may use, and men I can hire to assist you on your search. However,” Palpatine reaches across the small space between their chairs, laying a firm hand on Anakin’s arm. “I cannot do that if the Council does not permit you to search. You are brilliant, but still an apprentice, and even I cannot encroach on the Masters’ authority.”

“...Oh.” His heart drops. Now that hope has been kindled, he can’t extinguish the spark. “What should I do, Chancellor? Help me.”

The Chancellor pauses and pulls back with a thoughtful hum. “Perhaps if you have a chance to show them how you would excel in the position of a commander, the Jedi Master will be more willing to listen. Would you be up for the task, my boy?”

Anakin is leaning out of his chair. He takes the Chancellor’s hand in both of his own. “Yes,” he says at once, frantic and grateful. “I would. I would do anything.”

Chancellor Palpatine nods in understanding. He squeezes Anakin’s hand back. No one has offered Anakin such tangible comfort since he returned from Jabiim. A small smile graces the Chancellor’s sorrowful expression. “The depth of your love truly is your strength, my dear Anakin.”

—

As it turns out, the opportunity came in the shape of the Muunilinst Banking Clan - or rather, their treacherous and greedy undertakings, in building enormous droid factories and warships, all while feigning allegiance and benefiting from Republic protection. As soon as Master Windu proposed an immediate offensive operation, the Chancellor suggested to put Anakin in command of the forces in space. Even Master Windu had to relent after a few rounds of protests, and the Supreme Chancellor, as expected, got his way. Anakin’s mind has absented itself altogether as he witnessed the debate. His eyes were singularly on the prize: Permission to utilize Palpatine’s ship and men.

Permission to search for his late Master’s body.

Anakin emerges victorious from the enemy station, leaving a trail of explosions in his wake as the gun platforms are decimated by their own missiles, a couple at a time. _I wish you could see this, Master._ Back in the days - which was only about over a month ago; cruel how so much could change after so little time - Anakin had once asked him, that if Obi-Wan was _General Kenobi_ , what did that make Anakin himself? The answer had come easy and playful: “ _It makes you my Padawan._ ” He smiles, despite the familiar, teary sting behind his nose. _Now I’m Commander Skywalker, Master. I will find you, and I’ll give you a burial befitting of a great Jedi._

The remnants of their bond scintillate softly. No time to dwell on that. Anakin looks ahead, just as a screen flashes, indicating damage. Heavy damage.

“Commander Skywalker, we just lost all of Blue Squadron!”

A rogue starfighter speeds violently through his squadron’s formation. Anakin narrows his eyes. “I see them.” It’s a red Fanblade, shooting crimson blasts recklessly. Whoever damned pilot in there doesn’t have a care who they hit, just that they do damage and catch attention. Something strange tugs inside Anakin, like a thread frayed from the fabric of his mind. Something that has to do with the remainders of his training bond. He feels compelled to pick at that thread, pull at it, unravel whatever it is that holds his bond with Obi-Wan together - just to see where it leads. It whispers to him: the only way to do it is to chase after that rogue fighter.

“This one’s mine,” he says calmly into the communicator, and strays away from his space forces.

The thrill of the chase keeps his head above water, above the muck of grief and guilt. The Fanblade expertly swings and glides to avoid his shots, while shooting back in all efficiency. _Not bad for a rogue._ They circle, and swivel, and clash, and when Anakin circles back, the Fanblade succeeds in landing a few shots on the front of his fighter. R2 shrieks from the shot that barely misses. Anakin reloads his blasters in a flurry. The Fanblade slides in and out of shot like a damn insect in front of his nose. What _kind_ of a Sithspawn pilot droid is this?

He copies its distracting pattern, calibrates his guns, angles his own fighter to match the infuriating thing. Finally it fits into the center of the viewfinder. “Got you,” Anakin mutters, and hit fire.

The Fanblade blinks out of sight. Seems like it’s made a sudden nosedive towards Muunilinst’s atmosphere. Anakin jerks back the accelerator gear with a frustrated noise. “R2, fire the thrusters! This one’s no kriffing droid.”

He chases the rogue fighter through the city, firing shots nearly as reckless as whoever’s piloting that thing. He grazes the ground at times and buildings at others, knocking at statues and and columns. He can’t lose sight of that thing. The frayed thread keeps tugging at the back of his mind, _Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan_ . There is something about that Fanblade starfighter and Anakin _cannot_ let his chance go.

Of course Mace Windu would have to interrupt.

“It’s under control, Master Windu,” Anakin answer with half a mind.

“Under control? Skywalker, you are going to destroy half the city with your little goose chase. Your place is with your squadrons, Padawan.”

He’s right, and Anakin doesn’t care. Who cares if he destroys a city? This is the Muunilinst, the Force-damned Moneylenders. He’s got something more important in view. 

“Master Windu, this is not a droid pilot.” _And they’re carrying something about Obi-Wan with them, I can feel it._ “I can’t let them get away.”

“Let it go, Skywalker,” Master Windu is short of shouting into the communicator as the rogue fighter leads Anakin off into the higher levels of the atmosphere again. “It’s baiting you!”

R2 beeps and whirrs furiously. Anakin furrows his brows. “Jumping into hyperspace? You have their coordinates?” In the background, Master Windu is still calling for him. Anakin ignores it. “Plug them in, R2. That fighter isn’t losing us.”

“Skywalker!”

“The battle up here is more than one, Master Windu,” he says, coldly, thumb already hovering on the _End Transmission_ button. “I can handle this.”

“Do not follow that ship! Anakin Skywalker, do you hear me? Do _not_ follow that ship! That is an order! Skywalker!!”

“Sorry sir,” Anakin shrugs. “Your signal’s breaking up.” Master Windu’s voice blips into silence, and his cockpit is peaceful again as his starfighter bolts into hyperspace.


	4. Obi-Wan IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humans, Obi-Wan remembers, are not generally made to survive explosions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Torture, somewhat graphic.

At the Jedi Temple, Initiates and Padawans are taught many things aside from the clashing of lightsabers. Part of the curriculum is dedicated to biology, and how a sentient’s body interacts with the living Force. The classes are often grouped by species, but there are general sessions where all students of all species can get an overview of their many counterparts. Some species can breathe underwater, some can survive fire, and some can withstand great impact with minimal trauma. Humans, in general, do not excel in any of those things.

Humans, Obi-Wan remembers, are not generally made to survive explosions.

His hearing was reduced to a sharp ringing the moment the bombs went off. He’d used the Force to hold back the crumbling duracrete, as much of it as he could - for all he knew, there were still clones inside the base. His last memory was of something heavy crashing down on his skull.

The vast nothingness is not as peaceful as he has imagined - and yes, he  _ has _ imagined. Jedi don’t fear death because they acknowledge it and welcome the possibility like a quiet friend. Becoming one of the Force is a mere inevitable part of life, even more so when one is fighting a war. But this does not feel like the Force. It’s silent, yet restless; intangible, yet heavy; absent, yet stifling. There is no plane, no direction. It’s oppressively blank, save for a pinprick of light that keeps blurring in and out of focus from afar. The light holds the echoes of a voice.

_ I’m sorry, Master. I’m no good. _

He jolts into consciousness with a sharp burst of pain in the chest. As Obi-Wan resurfaces, the pain increases, sizzling through flesh and sinew. Every of his muscles contracts and loosens and contracts again a million times a second. His body wants to curl in on itself, but it can’t, and that’s how he registers the restraints on his wrists. When Obi-Wan opens his eyes, he finds his eyelids swollen. He most likely has a concussion.

“Slept well?”

The pain pauses. The voice is that of a woman, all smooth timbre and derisive drawl. Judging by the way his shoulders are wrenched back and his body hangs heavily from his outstretched arms, he infers that he’s no guest, but a prisoner. He searches her signature, and is met with glaring hatred. Obi-Wan holds back a groan, determined to dignify her with nothing more than deserving answers.

“...Quite alright,” he coughs out, and briefly wonders how long he has gone without water. “Though I couldn’t attribute that to the quality of the bedding. Or lack thereof.”

He turns his eyes up at the gritted laughter, and glimpses an angular face and ashen skin. The woman wears a vicious smile, chin held high. Something moves, and the current of electricity buzzes through him again. Obi-Wan releases the pain into the Force. Darkness clouds over him at once. This place is overrun with it - mucky, encompassing darkness. The Light side is a haze, but he hears a familiar voice call his title, at the back of his head. He holds onto that voice.

The pain subsides once more. His muscles still spasm from being run through with electric currents. Obi-Wan takes in a breath, channeling the Force to regulate his heartbeat. “If I happened to insult someone you know in my sleep, I apologize. I don’t sleeptalk often, but I am quite petty when I do.”

The woman grabs his chin, wrenching his face up. Her eyes are pale and cruel. “You have quite a mouth on you, Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Something leathered is yanked down over his head. He first suspects it’s meant to suffocate; but, as he looks out from the mask’s eye slits, he finds that he can still breathe. His mind, however, cannot. The Light side blurs and flickers, and darkness swirls wherever Obi-Wan reaches in the Force.

“Why, I’m flattered,” he replies dryly, voice muffled by the material. He can see that she wears armors and has weapons strapped on her. “May I have the honor of addressing you by name?”

“You’ll have no needs of addressing me,” she says at once, seemingly bristling. “Listen closely, Obi-Wan—“

“Ah, so we’re on first name basis now.”

“ _ Silence. _ ” The polearm strikes his chest again. The burst of electricity is short, but enough to numb his jaws. “I’m not interested in your little word games. Let us make this clear. I will ask you a few very simple questions. Answer them well and you’ll go free. Play around, and you’ll…”

Obi-Wan feels it coming before he sees the flash of the blade. He braces himself just a fraction of a second early, for the knife that rips through the flesh of his chest. His jaws set. There is so much darkness here that he could not afford to open himself up entirely. He can’t seem to release the pain into the Force.

“...You’ll know hell.”

“Oh darling,” Obi-Wan says. This time, his smile is true, wry though it is. “Trust me, I have known hell.”

—

The questions, as it turns out, are actually as simple as promised.  _ “Where are the Republic foundries?” _ and  _ “Where are the primary medical facilities?” _ , intrigues that are, sure, tactical, but of a much more modest scale than Obi-Wan has anticipated. His interrogator repeats the same queries each time, and rewards him with a cut to the body for every question he refuses to answer. It’s about half a dozen, each time, give or take. 

When he’s left alone in the dark, physically and figuratively and Force-wise, he contemplates. He orients himself within the room where he’s held. It’s clearly a dungeon, musty and dark, smelling of stale blood and decay. He prods with the Force, feels the structure of the room, maps out the door, the vents, the water pipes, the cracks and nooks on the walls. He extends he hearing outside of the room, and hears the guards greet his captor as  _ Commander Ventress _ . He can’t search any further than that. The mask on his face hampers him. It is a Sith creation, Obi-Wan guesses, sewn and dyed with some sort of Sith alchemy. It coils around his mind and perpetually hisses in his ears like a high whistle. It injects darkness into his dreams, shatters his attempts at meditation, fragments his thoughts. It forks the path before him every time he reaches into the Force: try to touch the Light and be shoved back and stung and suffocated at every turn of the way, or simply, comfortably dip into the Dark. There is no question as to which one he chooses. He would never betray the Order, even if nobody knows he is here.

Nobody knows Obi-Wan Kenobi is alive, and he is fine with that.

From time to time, he is fed. His diet consists primarily of a kind of mush that is meant to sustain his living functions, just enough for him to be capable of speaking and feeling physical damage. He counts them, sometimes, to entertain himself. Forty-two cuts on the arms and chest, scabbing over, stinging. Eighteen on his thighs, fresh, weeping. His face has been spared, in favor of keeping the mask snugly on. Not for long, Obi-Wan anticipates. He trickles the pain into the Force, his concentration slipping often enough that the sudden bursts of pain don’t blacken his vision anymore.

On the tenth interrogation since his capture, Ventress brings a foul-smelling bottle into his cell.

“Ah, refreshments,” he says, flatly. “Your hospitality has been stunningly congruent so far. Thank you, Ventress.”

She rips the mask off his face, seething. “Don’t you  _ dare _ —“

“I apologize. Would you prefer ‘my dear’ then?”

Instead of answering, she shoves the opening of the bottle into his mouth and tips his head back. The liquid tastes tinny, bitter, and smells like the old oil rag that Anakin uses to clean droid parts and tools. It burns its way down his throat and chest, and not in the liquor way. Obi-Wan is left coughing when she pulls the can away. The poison’s effect is instantaneous. He feels dizzy at once. With the mask off, he can gather the Force to purge it out of him - but not before his heart speeds up to the rhythm of a hummingbird’s wings. Sweat breaks over his brows.

She asks the same questions again, and only stops when the can is empty. The fresh, bleeding cut on his temple stings when the mask is pulled back on.

Obi-Wan grows used to the routine. Ventress is not terribly creative. She has a few variants of poison in her arsenal, but the worst it has gotten is one that makes Obi-Wan’s feel like his muscles are crawling with ants on the inside, for a few hours at most. He is able to purge most of it from his body, though not without much effort and lasting headaches. The flesh-eating maggots are admittedly a more interesting choice, but they are easily killed with the Force once they are in his stomach. He would never forget the taste, though.

In a way, her interrogations are almost a respite. Left alone in the darkness of his cell, Obi-Wan finds himself reaching towards his training bond too often. It’s not as if he wishes to be rescued - he doesn’t even know where he is, and he knows well that one Jedi Knight is not worth a galaxy-wide manhunt. No, it’s not his purpose. It’s involuntary, especially after his dreams.

He sees Anakin. He sees Anakin dragging his foot on durasteel, Anakin thumbing aimlessly at an unpowered droid. Anakin, standing dumbstruck in the middle of a hallway, glancing as if trying to remember something he has forgotten, only to hang his head and continues forward. Anakin, twisting his Padawan braid in a finger and wiping his eyes so harshly he might have scratched himself with his roughspun sleeve. He feels Anakin’s insistent guilt, feels surges of memories and regrets. Somebody’s hand presses on Anakin’s arm, sympathetic. Anakin smiles, unhappy. Obi-Wan is inclined to convince himself that they are mere dreams, but if his instincts are to be trusted, then the visions are more than just his own fabrication. Visions that he shouldn’t be holding onto, if he were a good Jedi at all.

_ I’m sorry, my Padawan. I’m no good, either. _

Anakin doesn’t know that Obi-Wan is alive, and perhaps it’s for the better. 

On the fifteenth interrogation, or perhaps it’s the seventeenth, or twentieth— Force knows how many, Ventress comes with neither knife nor poison. She comes with a curved weapon hilt, and when it blazes, it’s a red blade. A darksider’s lightsaber.

“Your little welp— what’s his name? Ah, right. Skywalker.”

Obi-Wan glares up, nothing more conspicuous than that. He doesn’t say a word. But his captor must have caught onto the ripple in his calm. She laughs cruelly, takes a step closer, tilts his face up in a deceptively gentle motion. The blade comes close to his neck, heat glowing against his skin.

“I’m going to kill him,” Ventress whispers, eyes sparkling with vindictive amusement. “But not before I tell him about you. I’ll hold his little head down and make him  _ see _ what I’ve done to his precious Master.”

_ She’s bluffing _ , Obi-Wan thinks to himself, mind whirling. There is no way she can reach Anakin. Anakin has most likely been assigned to another Master now. Obi-Wan has to trust in the Council, and the Force. He looks into her eyes with the most calm he can muster. “You can’t.”

“Keep on with that attitude,  _ Master _ Kenobi.” She’s undeterred. She speaks with the confidence of somebody who already has a plan in motion. “I’ll bring his head back to you. And then you can tell him to his face how you failed him. How about that, hm?” The lightsaber pulls back. An ordinary knife point breaks the skin on his cheekbone and drags towards his nose bridge in a torturous cut. “Unless you answer my questions.”

Obi-Wan regulates his heartbeat and his breathing.  _ I failed him. _ Anakin is not so easily defeated. He senses the Force in Ventress, but Anakin would never be left alone, and with a Jedi Master by his side, he should be safe. So Obi-Wan says nothing in return, not even when second thoughts grip him like a vise as the door slams shut.

—

_ I wish you could see this, Master.  _

Obi-Wan’s eyes flash open in the dark.

The exploding missiles and the sound of starfighter engine have been too real. Anakin’s  _ words  _ have sounded too real, reverberating in his mind like a thought of his own. The light winks out soon enough, muffled by the darkness that the mask forces on him, but the aftertaste of thrill and Anakin’s determination courses through his mind. It’s a chase. He’s chasing something— someone. Anakin is chasing someone alone.

_ Ventress. _

His brows knit together. Obi-Wan tries to focus, to no avail. The Force-damned mask doesn’t allow him to. All he has are glimpses. The glide of a starfighter. The glittering of hyperspace outside of a cockpit. The memory of Ventress’s taunting laughter comes back to haunt him.  _ Please, Anakin, stop. _ The connection is rickety, flickering, more blank stops than actual images.

A mad chase through a dense foliage. Crashing logs. Kicked up dirt and crushed grass. Crackling thunder. Blades sizzling in the rain. Hurled stones. Flashes of red and blue, sparking in darkness. 

_ “Where is he? What did you do to him?!” _

He doesn’t know whose words they are - they could very well be his own screaming thoughts. He knows, however, what they could mean, were they Anakin’s. That Ventress is making good of her promise. That Ventress is doing exactly what she has bragged about.  _ If Anakin comes to harm, it would be my fault. _ Obi-Wan swallows harsh. He wants to trust Anakin, but Anakin has been riled up for less than this. What’s more, Ventress would be convincing. She would be telling the truth.

_ “You… You killed Obi-Wan.” _

Or nearly all of it.

Anakin’s rage floods the bond uninhibited. Obi-Wan reaches back at once.  _ Anakin, no! _ The mask’s effects spring back full force at the sudden, too loud intrusion of a Light side bond. It clamps down on Obi-Wan almost physically, gouging the connection out of him, forcefully barring his shields. He chokes from the phantom impact within his skull, gasping in more air than he needs. The last image that flits through the steely curtain is Anakin’s lightsaber, extinguished, bouncing lifelessly down a rocky cliffside, dyed in a deathly red glow.

The chains rattle as Obi-Wan body jerks forward in his instinctive, overwhelming urge to  _ act _ . His heart pounds; his hands ball into fists. Panic shoots through him - panic and paranoia and pain, cumulated, days of unrest and nights barely slept. This is not good. He has to release his feelings. The Light is aloof to his misery, trapped behind the mask. The Dark opens its arms to him.

He does more than just release. He captures.

There are guards stationed outside his door. Only two. The corridor is cell after cell lined up, wall to durasteel wall. There are other prisoners here. Down the hallway is a control board beside the gate. Past the gate to the dungeons, pathways spread out like neurons. First corridor straight ahead, technical center, main hall, throne room. No. Right corridor, servant’s passages, training room, soldier’s quarters. No. Left corridor, morgue, weapon room, trophy room, hangar.  _ There it is. _ The kyber crystal in his lightsaber lays that way. 

His chains continue to rattle. The door slams open. Obi-Wan snaps his head up. A guard stomps in. “What’re yer—“

_ Please let me do this _ , he pleads to the Force. He doesn’t care anymore, whether the answer comes from the Light.  _ Please do as I say. _

The guard goes rigid before him.

_ Unhand me. _

The guard is silent, movements more droid than man as he undoes Obi-Wan’s manacles. Metal clangs, and Obi-Wan is free. He tears the mask from his face. The Light opens up to him like a breath of fresh air. He looks back at the guard, whose eyes are glazed over, and feels a twinge of guilt.

“You will lay down here and go to sleep,” Obi-Wan says, and exits the cell before the guard echoes back his words.

—

All cell doors are open, and all the prisoners break loose. Convicts roam the castle, snatching weapons from soldiers, escaping through side passages when they realize they are outnumbered and the looting is not worth it. Obi-Wan deplores the inevitable bloodbath, but the ruckus will disperse the soldiers and distract them from his disappearance - hopefully.

He slips into the corridor left of the dungeon gate, putting reluctant faith in his mapping of the castle. He shouldn’t have been able to do that. It was a moment of weakness and of too much power, simultaneously. Even so, there is no taking it back, and he cannot afford to dwell on it now. His cut-up body is offering enough of a distraction as it is, gashes weeping and stinging as he runs.

He tugs and reaches across his training bond with Anakin, still. It’s threadbare, stretched across the galaxy - they are too far apart. It glimmers each time he nudges it, only to extinguish once more, as if all there is left are afterimages.  _ Be safe, Anakin _ , he thinks. It’s not his place to make such a selfish wish, he knows. Still, he doesn’t fight it.

While navigating his way through the putrid stench in the morgue, Obi-Wan runs into a warlord called Kirske. “We’ve been figh’ing forever here on Rattatak,” says Kirske as he tags along unbidden. “I’ve been winnin’ all my life, till the Ventress clan came up and rose an army in the South. So I killed ‘em. But the girl got away.” Kirske snorts as they climb the stairs in the sound of muffled screams and thudding bodies. “Woulda killed her too, but some Republic warlock fell from the sky. Taught her how to use energy swords.” A side-eye at Obi-Wan’s garbs, a shrug. “They became too dangerous that we tried to kill ‘em too. The warlock fell, but eh, Asajj got away again. Now she’s the master of this castle.”

Obi-Wan decides that he wants very, very little to do with this convict.

The trophy room is a respite from the darkness that clogs the castle. It nearly resembles a high-ceiling chamber in the Temple, with its stoic pillars and display dais. The Force here is light, reverent and solemn. Or as solemn as it can be for a place adorned with war banners that hang tapestry-like behind rows of defunct enemy armors and weapons. Obi-Wan’s lightsaber lies amidst a myriad of cleavers and glaives. In the midst of all this stands a tall statue, of a man in Jedi robes, wearing a serene gaze. 

“That’s him,” Kirske supplies. “The— What’s his face… Er, whatever. The warlock.”

“He was a Jedi,” Obi-Wan says, quietly, clipping his own lightsaber on his belt. He lays a hand over the redwood box displayed right beside the statue, and opens it. There lays the unnamed Jedi’s lightsaber, cushioned in velvet. He takes it into his hand, feels the song of the kyber crystal. It has never been made to bleed. It has laid dormant all this time, in fact. However ruthless Ventress is, she clearly treasures the lightsaber - and the man. “He was her mentor, and you killed him.”

Kirske laughs an ugly, guffawed laugh. “Yeh, well. He could’ve just stayed outta this. Who sent him here? Your Republic?”

Obi-Wan looks up from under furrowed brows. He avoids the question. “You left Asajj Ventress an orphan, twice.”

But is he any different? Anakin’s mother passed under horrific circumstances only a few months ago, and what has he offered his Padawan for comfort beside paltry reminders of the Code? And he was content with leaving Anakin to think him dead, as well. Is he not Anakin’s friend, mentor, teacher? The pain of losing a mentor, perhaps Ventress knows it well. Perhaps that is why she baited Anakin into recklessness so easily. And now Anakin is...

He contemplates the weight of the lightsaber in his hand. This is perhaps one of Ventress’s last keepsakes of her mentor. Obi-Wan sighs. Protocol says that any stray lightsaber must be retrieved and brought back to the Order.  _ Who sent him here? _

He thinks of Anakin, Padawan braid between his fingers, lost.

It would be too cruel to take it away. He begins to disassemble the lightsaber.

“Hey, uh, they’re coming,” Kirske warns. “What’re you waitin’ for? Ain’t that your energy sword?”

“What are  _ you _ waiting for?” Obi-Wan says, unbothered. “Please, I urge you to leave without me.” He plucks the cold kyber crystal from the core, and reassemble the weapon. This way the crystal will be safe, and Ventress would still, at least, have a semblance of a memento.

The last pieces click back into place. Obi-Wan closes the box just before the first shot rings. 

—

When Obi-Wan borrowed a ship from the hangar of Castle Ventress, he figured it would be an indefinite loan. 

In other words, he stole it.

_ Master Qui-Gon would be proud _ , he thinks, frowning over the control panel as he exited hyperspace, trying to recover what coordinate he has set in a flurry. He is not completely unfamiliar with this model of personal shuttle; however, the ship has undergone a number of modification, as he can see. Reminiscent of Anakin’s starfighter, no doubt.

The thought lodges something painful into his heart. Obi-Wan takes a deep breath, one that pulls at every cut on his chest and makes all of his bruised ribs groans. He releases the feeling into the Force - all of it, pain and worry and grief. He succeeds with all but one. The image of Anakin’s lightsaber tumbling into darkness plagues him, gnaws at his better judgment.

He would never forgive himself, if Ventress really did make good of her promise.

“ _ Sector: Narrant _ ,” says the monitor all of a sudden.

“Ah hah,” Obi-Wan says, victorious for only half a second. A red warning blinks on the monitor.  _ Minor damage, back wing. _ Even within the cockpit, he can feel the ship shake.  _ Blast, are the shields even working? _

He pulls up a list of commands, and finds one to activate wide-range sensors in search for a landing site. The monitors tell him he’s tailed by at least three starfighters, all opening fire on him. The ship tilts off-kilter with another ringing shot. Obi-Wan grabs the steerer, pivots the ship out of range. A red alert blinks on the monitor. Still no major damage yet, but not for long.

Another shot. The ship swivels. He circles and takes an abrupt turn. Somehow he’s in the line of fire again. He can practically feel the ship denting. “I’m out of practice,” Obi-Wan mutters, gritting his teeth and steering the ship downwards. To think, he used to  _ like _ flying. After Pijal, he never has the taste for it again.

“ _ Shields: 80% damaged, _ ” announces the monitor. “ _ Shields: 80% damaged. _ ”

“Kriff. What about the search?”  _ This is so much harder without a co-pilot  _ or  _ an astromech. _ Obi-Wan frowns, tapping a combination of buttons in between steering and veering out of firing range. “Let’s see… A safe place to land…”

Bastooine? Not close enough. Cerea? Also too far away. Takodana? He’ll never make it. That leaves him with…

“ _Riflor. System: Riflorii. Suns: Riflorii A, Riflorii B, Riflorii C._ ” 

“ _Three_ suns? You would think Tatooine was bad.” 

“ _Primary terrain: volcanoes. Native species…_ ” 

Obi-Wan glances at the fuel bar. “Alright. Perhaps I’ll try for another hyperspace ju—”

Something explodes at the back. That was two shots at the same time, and they hit somewhere critical. The ship nearly spirals. A pandemonium of red alerts flare up. Hyperdrive is down - so much for hyperspace jump. One side of the ship is on fire, on the outer shell. A thruster is ninety percent damaged. Obi-Wan has no choice. He has to land on Riflor.

Correction: He is going to _crash_ -land on Riflor. 


	5. Padme V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That,” Padmé answers, putting a hand on her wife’s back, “is Anakin’s starfighter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Non-graphic description of major injuries.

As C-3PO fully engages the ship on autopilot, Padmé steps away from the control board and looks out from the viewport. Outside is a vast darkness, velvety black with minute twinkles of stars. It makes her somewhat drowsy, though both her biological clock and the ship’s standard clock indicate it’s not quite bedtime. It was still daytime when they exited Mandalore’s atmosphere. The week-long series of meetings must have worn her down, she reasons.

As if on cue, the door slides open. Sabé enters, already changed into a comfortable shift. Padmé smiles as a hand slides against hers, fingers twining. She turns away from the viewport and towards her wife, raising a hand to tuck a dark brown lock behind her ear. Sabé keeps her hair down whenever she isn’t on duty. Not because she’s unable to style her own hair - Maker knows how many times she has been the one to braid and curl and wrap Padmé’s hair - but because she is entirely unconcerned with the elaborate Nabooian updos. Her hair has always been more on the unruly side, just like Sabé herself.

“You’re tired,” Sabé says. Her voice is low, crooning almost. Her arms snake around Padmé’s waist, hand splayed over her stomach, moving in slow, soothing, circular motions. “Don’t deny it. You can’t keep overworking, Padmé. You’ve got...”

“...to think about the baby. I know, I know,  _ Tsabin _ .” She leans back into the soft curves of Sabé’s body. Sabé laughs lightly at her old name, one that they only use between them, in private and in jest. There’s the faint scent of shuura blossoms that Padmé so loves, the rumbling little laughter as Sabé kisses her behind the ear and begins to tug off the knots and ties in her headdress. 

“Am I wrong, though?” Her hand wanders up from Padmé’s slight baby bump and slips under the outer layer of her robes, cupping beneath her breast. Padmé sighs, shudders.

“Sabé, this is the cockpit.”

“And I’m here to bring you to bed.”

_ Oh, her voice. _ “At least wait until we enter hyperspace first,” Padmé says, turning around in Sabé’s arms. She leans in, and they meet halfway, lips sliding against soft lips. Time slows like syrup, as Sabé tugs on her bottom lip, finger pressing little massaging spots into the small of her backs. It draws a small moan out of Padmé, and she thinks she can’t—

“Mistress Padmé… Oh, oh dear, I apologize.”

Padmé turns around, warmth spreading on her cheeks. Sabé keeps an arm around her waist, undeterred _. _ C-3PO has the decency to look slightly embarrassed, or as embarrassed as a protocol droid can look. Behind him, a screen has been raised upright from the platform, flashing yellow. Padmé frowns, a sense of foreboding sending chills down her spine.

“Perhaps I have arrived at an inconvenient time!” C-3PO exclaims. He perfectly reproduces the mannerism of a stammering sentient.

“No, 3PO, please state your report,” Padmé says, brushing a hand through Sabé’s hair placatingly as she extricates herself from her embrace. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh, if you insist, Mistress Padmé. The sensors have detected an emergency help signal on a hidden-frequency, coming from the Yavin system.”

“Why would someone send out an emergency signal on a hidden frequency?” Sabé asks, brows drawn. She comes over to examine the monitor herself. “Look at this, Padmé. It’s a highly specific frequency range.” She taps the sidebar on the display to reveal a full graph. “We wouldn’t have been able to catch it if we weren’t on a Nabooian ship.”

“Maybe they are hiding from someone, and can’t risk setting up a general emergency beacon,” Padmé surmises, zooming in on the section about the signal itself. It has an oddly familiar pattern. “They might really need our help.”

Sabé sighs, the long-suffering sigh of somebody who has seen her lover dive into danger and followed along too many times. “Or maybe,” she utters emphatically, “it’s a trap. Padmé, you know how many people want you dead. Don’t tell me you’re—”

“3PO, can you run this signal through our unit signal pattern database? See if there is a match.”

The silence is filled with a low drone as the computer compares signal samples. Then comes a resounding beep, and the protocol droid lets out another dismayed  _ Oh dear _ .

“What is it, 3PO?”

“It seems that the signal came from an R2 astromech unit—” 3PO breaks off. Sabé bolts forward to check the report, despite her initial misgivings. When she turns back to Padmé, the rosy hue has drained from her cheeks.

“Padmé,” she says. “It’s R2-D2.”

—

They run a search using the sample. The emergency signal is still being broadcasted at the same frequency in waves; it seems that R2-D2 is intent on getting their attention and it could only be a worrying sign. The location turns out to be the moon Yavin IV, and Padmé lets Sabé surveil the search progress while she takes the pilot seat.

Yavin IV is covered in long stretches of jungle, with a few shrouded lakes here and there. It takes them a good while to find a clearing both large enough and close enough to R2-D2’s location to touch down. It’s just at the border of a forest, only a few stone’s throw away from a rocky cliff. Padmé exits alongside her wife, leaving 3PO to look after the ship.

“It’s humid here,” Sabé mutters. Padmé smooths her hair back and kisses her cheek, to which Sabé only grumbles. “Don’t. I figured I signed up for a lifetime of keeping an eye on you when I married you, so— Wait, look at this.” She grabs Padmé’s arm, shoving the datapad into her hand.

Padmé frowns. On the display, R2’s signal is not static. It’s moving. Moreover, it’s moving… directly at them.

“Sabé, get down!”

An engine whirrs loudly. Something smelling of burnt metal glides right past, narrowly avoiding them. Sabé stumbles into her arms. Padmé staggers back, but Sabé rights herself in time to keep them both from tumbling backwards.

“You alright?”, her wife asks, and Padmé nods. Sabé whips around to stand between her and potential danger. Her blaster is ready in her hand. “What  _ was _ that?” 

“That,” Padmé answers, putting a hand on her wife’s back, “is Anakin’s starfighter.”

The starfighter skids to a halt to the sound of R2’s telltale shriek, ten meters or so from them, inches away from crashing into the bottom of their ship. As the cloud of dust and dirt and cut grass begins to settle, Padmé can see the dented shell where blaster shots have penetrated the shield. Half of the starfighter is covered in soot; it’s unclear how much of it is really burnt. She glances at Sabé.

“Well, now I know why he likes you,” Sabé says.

That earns her an elbow to her side. Padmé narrows her eyes at the starfighter. The dust is clouding the cockpit, and she cannot see very well at this distance, but it seems... “I don’t think he’s in there.”

R2 extracts himself from his cavity on the front of the fighter. He barrels towards them at full speed, beeping frantically.

“Slow down, slow down.” Padmé crouches down, placing a hand on the dome. It’s warm, and R2 never overheats. “Sabé, can you get 3PO? I can’t make out what he’s saying.”

“He says Anakin is down there,” Sabé answers instead, brows pinched in concentration. She has always been more well-versed in Binary than Padmé. “In… critical conditions. Unconscious.”

“He can’t get into the cockpit by himself,” Padmé infers immediately, aghast. And the trench is too narrow and treacherous for their H-type ship to land. Only this very starfighter is fit to get down there and retrieve him. “I’ll—”

“I’ll go. You go back to the ship.” Sabé holds up a hand before Padmé could protest. “You’re exhausted, Padmé. You’re  _ not _ going to pilot this half broken fighter down to Maker-knows-where.” She lays a hand over Padmé’s belly, and Padmé’s eyes soften.

“...Alright.”

Sabé kisses her gently on the lips. They rise to their feet and link hands as they walk towards the starfighter with a chirping R2 in tow. 

—

Padmé waits in the cockpit with a fussing 3PO, diligently monitoring R2’s signals on the datapad. For how skilled Sabé is with everything else - she cooks better than Padmé does, reads faster, dances prettier, and her aim is  _ slightly  _ more accurate (they have little marksmanship competitions between them, sometimes) than Padmé’s - she has never been at ease in a cockpit. Sabé simply isn’t keen on flying. Padmé trusts her wife and the astromech, and their ability to work together to maneuver the starfighter, of course. That doesn’t mean she is going to take her eyes off the monitor.

After what feels like a century, Anakin’s half-burnt starfighter rises from the edge of the cliff. With Sabé in the cockpit and R2 aiding the navigation, the landing is much smoother. Padmé lowers the door immediately, but before she could rush out of the ship, the communicator beeps.

Padmé presses the button. “Yes, Sabé?”

“I need you to activate the medical droids, Padmé,” Sabé says, her voice tight with restraint. “Please bring out a stretcher too.”

It is as bad as it sounds.

Anakin lays prone on the medical table. He’s barely breathing, even with a mask on. His vitals are weak, pulse slow and slight. A cauterized slash runs over the end of his right brow, skin swollen raw. A rapid scan shows the eyeball itself is intact, but the cut has seared his skull, and rattled the area enough to damage numerous optic nerves. And that is not even the full extent of the damage. The right side of his face is otherwise bruised and scratched, bleeding. The medical droid has secured a back brace around his middle to support his fractured spine. Four of his ribs are broken, three on the right and one of the left. While his left leg is only badly bruised, his right leg is broken in various places from thigh to ankle. His left hand and arm are strangely intact, fingers curled tightly around what Padmé believes to be a curved hilt of a weapon. She tries to remove it herself, to no avail. It might hurt his fingers to force them open, even with the help of a droid, so she leaves it be.

His right shoulder is dislocated, and small burns litter his upper arm, all the way towards the prosthetic. His mechanical arm is completely ruined, curved up here and crushed there and warped and blackened in places as if it has been burned. Padmé thought it had been fried while he was in the cockpit, because the starfighter looked like it had narrowly escaped an explosion. Sabé makes no guesses. She beckons the astromech over.

“R2, what happened?”

The astromech trills mournfully, and projects a blurry, shaking holo. The holo seems to have been recorded while R2 was inserted on Anakin’s starfighter, and was navigating the vehicle on his own. He was chased by someone, veering left and right to avoid blaster shots, until the screen shakes in a grenade explosion, in tandem with a loud shriek. The recording ends there.

“So that was how the starfighter went down." Padmé turns back to the medical table. The medical droids are whirring, trying their best to clean and bandage Anakin’s wounds, set temporary splints, secure his limp body. Her heart squeezes. He’s a strong Jedi, but right now, he just looks like a boy. “That doesn’t explain his right arm.”

“When I found him down there,” Sabé begins. Her face is forcefully neutral, but her knuckles are blanched. Padmé takes her hands. They are dirtied, fingers rubbed red, palms scratched. Sabé breathes out. “...When I found him down there, his leg was under a large rock. R2 helped me lift it.” She looks back at Padmé, lips downturned. “He fell at least thirty meters. I think he survived because he was scraping along the cliffside. Holding on with that hand.” She points at the curled up, charred metal. "It probably sparked and caught fire."

Padmé has seen her fair share of the dead and the injured. She still feels queasy. “He’ll make it,” she rubs Sabé’s back. “We’re going to bring him back to Coruscant. The Jedi healers will know what to do. He will be alright.”

They seal the medical room. They return to the cockpit, set the coordinates and enter hyperspace. The ship is put on autopilot, surveilled by C-3PO. Padmé has decided to spare the protocol droid of the sight of his master, silent and immobile. R2-D2, on the other hand, remains by Anakin’s side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i trIED to create some intrigue but hnkdfl im sorry for the short chapter


	6. Anakin VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you telling me to leave Obi-Wan for dead when I _know_ he’s alive? Is that any better than straight up murder?”

_ The sky darkened, stormy, tortured. His opponent, the darksider, stood atop the stone bridge, above him. Her lightsabers glared red like two weeping wounds in the rain. A bolt of lightning tore the clouds apart in a burst of white. Light flashed, etching sharp shadows on her severe face.  _

_ “Want to know what I did to your Master?” She smiled like a skull. _

_ He charged at her. He didn’t want to listen. He could feel Obi-Wan’s signature, or at least what was left of it. This darksider, this wretched  _ creature _ , whoever she was, she’d found Obi-Wan. His Master had been alive under that rubble all this time, Anakin had had all this time to search for him, but he’d let her get to Obi-Wan first. _

_ She avoided him easily. Somehow, all of his slashes felt weak. Pathetic.  _ I’ve failed you, Master. _ Images flashed before his eyes. Obi-Wan, chained and left to rot in a dungeon. Head slumped, eyes closed, blood and sweat mingling, rolling over dozens of cuts in his skin. He was murmuring something. Begging to be killed. Entirely undignified.  _ This couldn’t be true. My Master would never.

_ “Trust me, little boy. All of it is true,” the darksider’s voice lilted. Their lightsabers clashed, two red against one blue. Her beady eyes bored into him. He saw more. Obi-Wan’s body mangled and bloody, flesh sloughing off bones, eaten raw. He could hear the darksider’s laughter. Could hear agonized screams. _

_ He spun, kicked, slashed. He was pushed back. She blocked, leapt, thrusted. She beckoned him on haughtily. Their blades met in the air, matching strike by strike. They landed on a rocky, jutting cliff. She cut through his defenses, landed a slash that missed his eye by a hair’s breadth. Disoriented, Anakin loosened his hand. She wrenched his lightsaber from his grip. It clacked down the cliff, and into the yawning pit beneath. _

_ Anakin cried out from the third onslaught of visions in his mind. Question after question, cut after bleeding cut. The red glow of a lightsaber, ignited through flesh. Obi-Wan’s pulse, slowing to silence. _

_ Anakin staggered. His breath was choked in his throat.  _

_ “You… You killed Obi-Wan.” _

_ He met her halfway when she lunged at him. Grabbed both her wrists, gritting his teeth, staring into her ghastly pale eyes. He twisted his hand until he could feel something crunch in his fist, until the darksider had to let loose a hand. _

_ And suddenly he was wielding her saber. He didn’t think any longer. He couldn’t see through his tears. He was striking and counterstriking; slashed and slashed and slashed; brought the red lightsaber down, over and over again. She didn’t taunt him anymore. She blocked and slashed, and he had her cornered towards the far end of the cliff, and he knew, he knew, he had her— _

_ The ground beneath him crumbled. In a fraction of a second, everything froze. Something burst at the back of his mind. He could hear a voice, warm and familiar. He could feel their bond, all of a sudden, as bright and short lived as a supernova. He was falling, he was screaming, screaming... _

“Liar!”

His eyes open.

They close again, immediately. Everything is too bright. The smell of bacta cloys at his senses. He takes in a sharp breath. Maybe too sharp. Air knifes into his bronchus. His ribcage feels like unoiled droid parts, creaking with crackles of pain. A faint beeping slowly emerges as his hearing awakes. It sounds, vaguely, like his head is underwater. The beeping speeds up. Something clicks and slides, then footsteps, and somebody is standing above his bed.

“Padawan Skywalker,” says a gentle voice he doesn’t recognize. He does, somewhat, recognize the Force signature. He groans, reluctantly cracking his eyes open again. 

“She lied,” Anakin says. He’s surprised at how weak his voice is, how he feels so drained after just those two simple words. He could’ve sworn he’d shouted loud and clear earlier. Even so, he tries. “My Master…”

“Please calm down,” the healer says, a hand hovering over his forehead. Artificial calm spreads deftly into his signature and extinguishes his rising agitation like a blanket thrown over a fire. The peace that swirls in his chest reminds him of a gentle touch, a warm hand on his own, correcting his wrist, his grip, his arm position.  _ “Well done, Anakin” _ ...

Tears spring to his eyes. Anakin resists. “No… I have to—” He gives a start, and tries to lift his left hand. He flexes his fingers. He’s had it, the darksider’s saber. He can’t have lost it. “Please… Obi-Wan is...”

The monitor beeps. A second machine choruses along, as Anakin tries to wrench himself free. Pain shoots up his leg and his back. He cries out, frustrated. The healer rummages through something nearby. Anakin can feel the exact moment a substance enters his bloodstream. He sobs out, helpless.

“...is alive.”

—

Over the course of the next few days, Anakin comes to. He gets used to the sickly sweet, cloying smell of bacta. It clings to his very skin, a remnant from the bacta tank he was in for a week straight before he woke up the first time. He learns of his broken leg and his broken ribs and his broken back, and the circumstances of his retrieval. He understands that the confrontation ended in bitter defeat. He asks questions and is met with equally vague answers. He tries to tell a few healers about Obi-Wan and their reawakened bond. In return, he gets awkward silences, maybe a stilted reassurance at best.

He has been fitted with a new mechno-arm. It‘s the exact same prosthetic as the old. He gets used to it much faster than he did last time, but it still feels foreign. It has never been tinkered with, never had alloy ligaments added to it, no servo calibration done to it. It doesn’t have the golden plating that his Master has once praised. It has never known the same touch of a familiar hand.

Fractures heal, torn flesh knits. Muscles work again, as does a new prosthetic. He can sit, and then he can walk, but he has nowhere he’s allowed to walk to. Dusk and dawn cycle outside the window, just out of reach, as time stills in the infirmary room that imprisons him. He’s burning inside. The darksider’s fabricated visions have scraped the inside of his skull raw, but they have also opened his eyes. Obi-Wan is alive. He knows it to be truer than all of his grief and anger. They’re too far away for him to truly reach Obi-Wan through the bond. Yet there is the feeling of  _ life _ pulsating on the other side, one that has been muffled all this time for reasons beyond his speculation.

Amidst all of this, Padmé visits him.

They haven’t talked since after Geonosis. She asks him how he feels, seeming worried. The sympathy in her eyes shames him.

“I’m alright,” he mutters. “I have to find Obi-Wan. He needs me.”

“Do you know where he is?” she asks. Anakin turns away, and their conversation ends there.

The second time she comes, Anakin has had an untroubled night of sleep. He feels fit to smile, sheepish, and thank her for saving his life. He even notices the change in her clothing now. She wears a looser dress, still elaborate but the fabric seems much softer. She’s with child, he can see it.

“I wanted to tell you as soon as possible, Ani,” she says, noticing his curious gaze. “But at no point did it seem… appropriate, to bring it up.”

Anakin looks at her, perplexed. “I thought you and Sabé were public?”

“We are,” she replies. “It is their... biological father’s identity that we keep anonymous.”

One beat of silence, two beats, three. Anakin’s face colors. Naboo, about six months ago - though it feels like another lifetime, before he lost his mother, before he lost his arm, before he lost Obi-Wan. “I… You mean…” He swallows thickly. Her patient silence says enough. “Force, Padmé. I’m…”

“Sorry? No, Ani, don’t be.” She smiles, gently. “We are going to keep it a secret, unless you’d like for it to be otherwise—”

“No! No. I mean. The choice is yours.” His head is spinning. It was a moment of utter carelessness, and he has never considered so much as the possibility that she might… conceive. So he’s a father now _. _ The notion strikes him as unbearably foreign. He has grown up without one, and the thought that there are now children of his blood— it rattles him. Padmé seems to have caught on to his momentary distress. She leans forward. Anakin gathers himself. “I’m— fine with it. I only… I don’t want it to be a problem for you. Your career. Everything.”

“I promise you, it isn’t a problem. Sabé has always wanted children. We talked about it. We’re alright.” She reaches for his unhurt hand. Anakin stares at it, and then looks up at her. Padmé’s eyes twinkle at the mention of her child. No,  _ their  _ child. “I wanted you to know, because I would want them to know.”

“Does that mean I can... see them?” Anakin asks, and hastily adds, “I want to help.” He’s not sure where this enthusiasm comes from; nor does he know what exactly he could do to help, as he so said. But he isn’t going to be able to sleep at night if this becomes a burden for her.

“Oh, Ani.” Padmé’s smile grows. “Nothing would make us happier.”

—

Eventually, Anakin is let out of the Halls of Healing, if only to be called in by the Council.

“Padawan Skywalker,” Saesee Tiin greets. “It has come to our attention that during the Battle of Muunilinst, you strayed from your post as commander of the space squadrons and abandoned your duty in favor of pursuing a rogue starfighter.” Anakin glances to Windu, who doesn’t spare him a look. He does seem displeased. Tiin doesn’t remark on his momentary distraction. “Additionally, you have disobeyed direct orders from your Master and General, and put yourself in danger.”

_ He’s not my Master _ , Anakin thinks.

“However,” the Jedi Master continues, “you have also faced a darksider alone, and have presumably defeated them, given the lightsaber you have brought back. We believe you may have much to say.”

“Masters,” Anakin begins. He has never been alone in front of the Council before. The thought doesn’t frighten him, only pierces him with longing. “I believe the darksider I fought has been holding Master Obi-Wan captive. My Master is alive, and I must find him.”

“Loyal to your Master, you are,” Yoda says. “Elaborate, you would?”

“Yes, I…” Anakin recounts the event. How the darksider destroyed an entire squadron to catch his attention. How she lured him into a chase - and he fully admits it now - to kill him. How she spoke of Count Dooku, of her own twisted ambitions, delusional plans, but most importantly, “When I fought her, Master Obi-Wan called out to me. I can feel him through our training bond.”

“Yet you have not before, for an extended amount of time,” Plo Koon observes. “In fact, you seem to have accepted his passing. Why are you inclined to believe differently now?”

Anakin frowns. “I don’t know. I couldn’t feel our bond before. But it’s different now. He has been taken by a darksider, he must’ve been inhibited in some ways!”

“That is pure speculation,” Windu says, in a resolute tone.

“It’s not  _ pure _ speculation. I fought her. She said herself that she has been imprisoning him and interrogating him.” Tiin holds up a hand, but Anakin presses on. “You can’t ignore that.”

“And those were the words of a darksider,” Windu interrupts. “I am appalled that you would take them as they are.”

“It’s not all her. It’s my bond with Master Obi-Wan too,” Anakin grits. 

“You cannot let your feelings cloud your judgment—“

“Cloud my judgment?” Anakin gapes, incredulous, and furious. “What judgment, Master Windu? Are you telling me to leave Obi-Wan for dead when I  _ know _ he’s alive? Is that any better than straight up murder?”

“I would advise you to stay your accusations, Skywalker,” Ki Adi says. “You do not know if he truly is—”

“I do! I  _ heard _ him!”

Yoda thumps the gimer stick on the floor. “Calm down, you will, young Skywalker.”

“There is little need for you to show such animosity,” Ki Adi follows up. “And it is unfortunate, for we have long considered the many trials you have gone through in the field. We intended to discuss the possibility of your knighthood.”

The statement hits Anakin like a freight ship. A million thoughts run through him at once. The Council thought to  _ knight _ him? If he were knighted, he could finally make use of the Supreme Chancellor’s help. He could have ships and men and the resources to truly find Obi-Wan. Hope rises, tingling in his spine. He feels their bond flutter. Is it approval?

“...But your attitude today gives us reasons to re-evaluate such matters.”

“What?” Anakin says, faintly.

“Ready, you are not,” Yoda puts it in plain words.

_ And it’s through no one’s fault but your own _ , a voice whispers to him. If he hasn’t raised his voice, would they have made the decision to knight him? Maybe they won’t ever. He has failed to save his mother, and now his last chance to save his Master is also gone. What has he ever accomplished as a Jedi?

Anakin stares at the Masters and their unyielding faces. The apology that might have risen in his chest is quashed. He narrows his eyes, fingernails cutting into his own palm. “In that case, I never will be.” His voice is near shaking. “Either Obi-Wan knights me, or  _ nobody does _ .”

He turns around, and leaves the chamber before something might break.

—

Anakin’s mind is not on the mission.

He steers the starfighter, diving down and away a second before the pirate ship explodes. His heart is thumping wildly in his chest. He doesn’t realize he has cried out loud, until Ki Adi Mundi chides through the speaker. “That was  _ extremely  _ reckless, Skywalker. Not to mention, a Jedi should not rejoice before the death of so many.”

“That’s not it, Master Ki,” Anakin says. He’s unable to hold down his smile. “It’s Master Obi-Wan. He’s very close. I can sense him. Can’t you, Masters?”

He sees them in his mind’s eyes, flashes more vivid that the past months of his reality. Red, hard soil. A rocky desert, sandless. A planet overrun with volcanoes. Little settlements, a wary people. Reluctance turned into charmed hospitality. Scorching days and feverish nights. Three suns.

_ You would have thought Tatooine was bad. _

There is only one system in all of Mid Rim that has three suns. It is a scant few parsecs away.

“You are seeing what you want to see, Skywalker,” Ki Adi Mundi insists. “I do not sense anything.”

“Neither do I. However,” Plo Koon speaks up. “Anakin and Obi-Wan have a bond. If Anakin truly trusts in his feeling, so should we.”

They are close to entering Varonat’s atmosphere. There is a long pause of deliberation.

“He must not go alone, in that case,” Ki Adi concedes, finally.

“I will handle speaking to the people of Varonat. Please accompany him, Master Mundi.”

“Thank you, Master Plo,” Anakin breathes out. Never mind that he’s going to go anyway. It’s still good to have some support. “He’s on Riflor, Master Ki. He…”

Another flash.  _ Don’t rush, Anakin. _ Obi-Wan’s eyes narrow. The suns are rising where he is. His lightsaber is drawn. He’s defending the natives from bounty hunters, or pirates, or any such bandits.  _ I’m alright. I could hold out. _

“He’s in trouble,” Anakin says. “Again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes this and the last chapter is supposed to be the same chapter but i cut into two, hence... anyway i wanted to post this on the same date but it took me a bit to get this one out.
> 
> -flails- this chapter doesn’t have a FOCUS! my god


	7. Obi-Wan VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin smiles down at him, brighter than all the suns.

“This is not going to end well for you, you know?” Obi-Wan sighs, exasperated.

Five bounty hunters surround him, clad in light armor and armed with heavy blaster guns. Judging by the amount of ammunition they’re wearing, they’re still fresh. They probably have backup coming. He can feel the presence and focus of a sniper, somewhere near, which is such a bother it makes him groan. He’ll have to keep an eye on that one as well.

This is all terribly inconvenient.  _ Just _ when he has earned enough trust with the Advozse family to borrow their communicator device…

At least the Advozsec have been able to disperse. He would hate for them to come to harm; they have given him lodgings far better than he has had in a standard month or so. (Time is blurry on a planet with such a slow rotation cycle, and he has got no standard clock.)

One of the bounty hunters before him, a stocky human male, grits out a laugh. “Big words for a dead man.”

Obi-Wan spins and deflects two blaster shots in one stroke, ducks a third and stoops to the ground to kick one of the bounty hunter in the shin. He’s up in half a second, slicing over the first blaster gun that has momentarily ceased fire to reload. There are still a handful of Advozsec who remain too close for his liking, and he intends to lead the bounty hunters as far away as he could.

“‘S an easy one, boys,” another bounty hunter, a Weequay, calls. “He ain’t killing any of us, he’s a Jedi.”

A Dathomirian lunges at him. Obi-Wan waits until the bounty hunter is an inch away from his face. He swoops down and rolls to the side, letting momentum carry his attacker towards kissing the ground. Two of the bounty hunters launch at him from either sides, spears and knives in their hands. Obi-Wan leaps in the air. They crash into each other. He lands a good few strides away from the carnation. Blood seeps into the ground. The suns stare down on his neck, scalding. 

“I thought I’d be worth more alive,” he says, holding up his lightsaber again. One of the refracted blaster shot hits the human bounty hunter squarely in the breastplate, making him stagger back.

“Bonus’s not worth the risk,” the human spits. Obi-Wan whirls around to find himself faced with the Dathomirian, who’s just risen from the ground. 

Danger tugs at the back of his temple. He bends backwards, hair nearly touching the dirt. A dart grazes his belt and lodges itself in the Dathomirian’s diaphragm. Obi-Wan somersaults on the ground, plants his feet down and springs upright, eyes scanning around.  _ Snipers truly are a pain. _ The Dathomirian collapses, spasming, dead. The human fixes Obi-Wan with a furious look. He and the Weequay are the only two hunters left standing. “You’ll pay for this.”

Obi-Wan falls back into a defensive stance. “Taking me alive now would cover the cost.” He can feel Anakin’s signature nearing, feel the golden threads weave and fill as their bond thickens with proximity. It’s enough to give him fuel for fifty times a fight like this. More shots ricochet at him. Neither bounty hunters want to try approaching him now.

Just then, he hears a shriek.

A lone Advozse child comes into view. Obi-Wan reacts first, speeding past the raining blaster shots, some of them grazing his shoulders, his sides. He shoves the bounty hunters aside with the Force to get to the child. “Stay back,” he shouts. The child startles and begins to run - fortunately, in the direction of shelter, as far as he is aware. Obi-Wan turns around to make sure no one is following the child.

He’s knocked to the ground so fast he doesn’t register it at first.  _ I knew they’ve got backup. _ His attention has been far too wrapped up in getting that child to safety, it seems.

It’s neither the Weequay nor the human that has him pinned to the ground. It’s a newcomer, whose armor rattles like a suit of bones. Obi-Wan’s lightsaber is snatched out of his grip. A boot goes down on his wrist, bearing down, crunching bones. The pain yanks at Obi-Wan’s concentration for a moment. A hand shoves at the base of his skull. His cheekbone scrapes against the hot, red soil. He gathers his momentum in the Force, intending to throw the bounty hunter off of him. He can feel the heat of his own lightsaber, swinging down. The kyber crystal cries.

And then the bounty hunter cries out too.

A severed hand thuds on the ground. The bounty hunter stumbles back, armor still rattling. Obi-Wan wastes no time. The hilt of his lightsaber smacks heartily against his palm. He rises to his knees, and then a strong arm links with his, hand gripping at his upper arm to pull him up.

Anakin smiles down at him, brighter than all the suns.

  
  


With two Jedi present and a Republic gunship arriving overhead, the bounty hunters know better than to persist. They scuttle, not bothering to take their dead. What unnecessary deaths they are.  _ I told you so _ , Obi-Wan thinks, grimacing, as he climbs into the gunship. He’s barely taken a breath when the breath is knocked out of him again.

Anakin’s arms wrap around him vise-tight - one around the shoulder, the other about the waist; fists bunching into tattered robes, too scared to let go it seems. His face is pressed to the crook of Obi-Wan’s neck, short cropped hair tickling his jaw, breath stuttering. Obi-Wan freezes completely, eyes wide. Anakin’s heart thrums flush against his own,  _ thumpthumpthump _ like a caged little bird. Anakin is trembling.

It takes Obi-Wan a few moments to bring his arms around his Padawan in turn. It hits him then, how much he misses this. How utterly grateful he is, that Anakin is not only alive, but has come to his rescue. Anakin hasn’t given up on him, even when he himself has resigned to his fate. Anakin is in his arms right now, solid and warm, real and whole, and still trembling like the bright-eyed Tatooine boy entering cold space for the first time some ten years ago.

It’s unbecoming, to show so much outward and physical affection, so much attachment both figurative and quite literal. Obi-Wan doesn’t think about that, not right now. He’s busy stroking Anakin’s pulled back hair, cradling the back of his head to ease his tension. Anakin’s mental shields peel back, laying down like overbloomed petals. Residual sorrow and anger and pain are webbed all over his psyche, and across their bond is a panicked ebb and flow of  _ joy-relief-I’msorryI’msosorry _ crashing in on itself. Obi-Wan meets it gently with a wave of reassurance and relief of his own, and fondness, so much fondness, so much that the bridge of his nose stings and his eyes threaten to blur.

“Anakin,” he says, gently. He doesn’t pull away just yet. Perhaps it’s indulgence, or perhaps it’s self-indulgence. The comfort so elusive in this cold, wide universe, Anakin hands it out with such little effort and such earnest insistence that he can't help but take it. He can’t bear to make Anakin part from him unwillingly.

When Anakin pulls back on his own accord, his eyes shine with unshed tears. It makes his smile all the more heartrending. “I thought I’d never hear that again, Master.”

Obi-Wan rolls the Padawan braid lightly between his fingers, smiling back without a thought. “You’ll tire of it soon, I promise.” 

—

By the time they arrive to Coruscant, the skies are dark. Anakin, of all people, ushers him to the Halls of Healing. Much to Obi-Wan’s chagrin, he cannot fault his Padawan for the admittedly reasonable compulsion - or he would never hear the end of it the next time he himself drags Anakin to the healers.

“You know you’ll be called in for a check-up as well, don’t you?” Obi-Wan sighs, as two healers come up to receive them.

Anakin merely shrugs. “It’s worth it.” 

They’re led into an unfortunately familiar room, ceilings high, windows tall, smelling sterile with a trace of sickly sweet bacta. Despite it being night, all of the medical droids are moving around, bustling with work. There are a few other Jedi in there, some faring worse than others. Obi-Wan grimaces.

The Temple healers prescribe him with an antidote to flush out the residual poison in his body, an immunity booster, and a month worth of bacta patch supplies. They thankfully deem him fit to return to his own quarters. Little else comes up as remarkable, but when he keeps an ear out for Anakin’s health report—

“You broke  _ how many _ bones?” Obi-Wan snaps his head up.

“Master,” Anakin groans.

“Anakin, please tell me I heard it wrong. You did  _ not _ fall down a cliff, did you?”

“I don’t remember,” Anakin deflects, clearly. “I’m fine. Everything healed. Else they wouldn’t have allowed me on a mission.”

The two healers exchange a look, clear as day, before they release the pair of master and apprentice. Anakin has probably pleaded and nagged and annoyed his way out of the infirmary for all he knows. He doesn’t ask, simply rises to his feet. Anakin follows suit, likely far too glad to leave the infirmary. He insists on carrying the pack-full of bacta patches and medicines. Obi-Wan gives in, and they fall into comfortable silence. They round corners, traverse halls and climb into lift tubes. The silence begins to tighten around them as they enter the dormitories. He can sense a low buzz of agitation from Anakin, clumsily concealed. He doesn’t address it - he wouldn't point out what Anakin hasn’t wanted him to notice.

They’re a door away from his quarters when Anakin speaks up suddenly.

“Are you angry, Master?” His smile is playful, but his voice wavers. Nervousness emits from behind closed shields, and Obi-Wan finds it impossible not to soften.

“While I do think what you have done was extremely dangerous and I do not condone it, I would be a hypocrite to fault you for any of that. So, no, I am not.” He doesn’t look up, merely placing a hand on Anakin’s back as they slow to a halt in front of his door. “Most of all, Anakin, I am truly grateful you are alive and well. It’s what I would have wished for, whether or not the will of the Force allows me to come back.”

When the quip he expects doesn’t come, Obi-Wan looks up. Anakin has paused completely in his steps, fixing him with an open, wide-eyed stare. His brows are drawn, pulling at the pink, glossy line of scar tissue on his face; his lips are parted, quivering. Anakin blinks, and oh - the tears have been there all along.

“Sorry, I, uh...” Anakin mumbles, hand coming up in a frantic motion. Obi-Wan is quicker to reach up. After all, he’s no stranger to wiping Anakin’s tears, back in the days. “I’m fine, Master,” Anakin insists, but then Obi-Wan takes his mechno-hand and Anakin’s breath hitches in a sob. Anakin bites down on his lip, turning his head to the side as drop after drop of tear tracks down his face. “Don’t look at me,” he says, like a child too prideful for weakness, too scared of imperfection. And yet his metal fingers curl down, squeezing Obi-Wan’s hand, seizing his heart along with it.

“Don’t hide from me, my Padawan.” Obi-Wan brushes his thumb against wet lashes. “Why don’t we come inside?”

A bolt of panic shoots through their bond, questionably, but then Anakin nods. He says nothing about it, so neither does Obi-Wan. As soon as they enter the room, Obi-Wan finds out why. While the room seems entirely untouched, traces of Anakin’s signature linger like warmth after dusk, faint as sunlight on ivory. They are barely noticeable, but they are there, and obviously recent.

_ Oh, Anakin. _ His chest pangs in memories. When Qui-Gon passed, Obi-Wan had come back to his quarters once, to gather his things, fold his robes, put away his stones and windchimes, box them all up forever. Jedi do not have personal possessions; and Obi-Wan would argue that those little gifts and souvenirs are not Qui-Gon’s personal possessions. They are Qui-Gon. It is not the memento themselves, but the fact that he kept them around despite having little practical use of them, that is part of the man Qui-Gon was. To stand in that room and feel the thick of his Master’s past presence had been overwhelming. It was as if Qui-Gon was still there, through the only traces left of him in this universe. The illusion clashed with the raw edges of their bond that had been so brutally severed. Somehow it became even harder, then, to grasp the fact that Qui-Gon was truly, irrevocably gone.

He never set foot near Qui-Gon’s quarters again, even for years after the rooms had been assigned to another Jedi. He knows how it feels.

“You needn’t feel shame,” Obi-Wan says, softly, as they settle down on the couch side by side. Anakin hasn’t let go of his hand, and he doesn’t mind in the slightest. “Do you remember what I told you about feelings?” 

Anakin gives him a teary smile, at that. “How could I forget? You lecture me all the time, Master.”

“Oh?” Obi-Wan inquires, warming at the sight of his smile. For how grown his Padawan is, he doubts he would ever be able to rid himself of this palpable urge to protect. He keeps an arm carefully draped about Anakin’s shoulders, offering tangible comfort. “Then here’s your opportunity to recite my own words to me, young one. Because I… Ah, well. I believe I have touched the Dark once more, while I was on Ratattak.”

A somber look crosses Anakin’s face. “When I fought the— When I fought her, Ventress, I saw you, Master. It was very bad. It didn’t seem like you, though. I knew she was lying as soon as I felt your call. But I...”

_ So that’s why he insisted on going to the Halls of Healing with me. _ “And there is a reason why you heard me then.” Obi-Wan says, smoothing back Anakin’s hair. “I felt deeply disconcerted by the mere idea of you being in danger, or distress. So much so that I was willing to manipulate the mind of a prison guard, in order to free myself.” He remembers it all too well - his pleas to the Force, his disregard of whether it reaches the Light. The mask played a role, but he hadn’t resisted it. Couldn’t.

The darkness doesn’t clear. Anakin’s anger is barely suppressed. “You mean if I hadn’t chased after her, you would have let her keep torturing you and kill you.”

“What I mean is,” Obi-Wan says, firmly, “you have trusted your feelings in a way that saved my life.” He pauses and gives a small smile. “I do not fear death, but I would choose to live, for you, Anakin.”

Anakin looks at him as though he were a precious Mustafar fire diamond. His eyes are awfully soft. “As I would for you, Master.”

There’s something much more solemn than mere echoed devotion - but then again, Anakin has always been this way. Obi-Wan nods. “And as we would for the Order and the good of the Republic. Now,” he rises to his feet, stretching slightly, “I believe we are both in dire need of some long overdue rest.” He strolls across the room towards the kitchenette. He puts on a kettle, and opens the cupboard. Kamil tea would be good for sleep, but he’s been missing the taste of a Gatalenta brew. He brushes a contemplative hand over his beard - overgrown beard, now that he has the leisure to notice. He should get it trimmed in the morning.

The kettle is about boiling when Obi-Wan turns around to find his Padawan still there, standing awkwardly a stride away. “Anakin? Is something the matter? It’s very late, you should—”

“Can I stay here?”

Obi-Wan stares at him. It’s been upwards ten years since Anakin was young and small and scared enough to climb into his bed at night.

Anakin shuffles his feet. “I’ll take the couch,” he adds, as if he needs to plead. “I want to stay here, Master. Just… just tonight.” 

And how could Obi-Wan deny him that? “I didn’t know you’d fancy a late night tea,” he says, smiling, beckoning Anakin over. Anakin brightens and joins him at the counter. If they stand a little closer than usual, shoulder to shoulder, Obi-Wan doesn’t mention it. Elbows bump, he pours water into the teapot, and Anakin places a hand on the small of his back, entirely unsubtle.

—

Obi-Wan usually overstays his own report before the Council. As of late, he has been asked to weigh in every time he stands before the Council, even when the subject matter has shifted completely from what he initially came to present. Today the questions keep rounding back to the Jedi’s thinning forces. Their numbers are dwindling on every battlefront. They are at a sore lack of Knights, especially when the Separatists seem to come up with new manners of brutality and underhandedness every day - this new General Grievous being the most prominent example. 

“Masters, if I may propose,” Obi-Wan speaks up. “I know this will generate debate, but I do suggest we forgo the Trials and promote certain capable Padawans to Jedi Knight.”

Oppo Rancisis raises a hand. “That is preposterous. The Trials have been a pillar of our training since the beginning of the Order. It is as much a part of the Jedi as the Code.”

“I agree,” Adi Gallia nods. “The Trials are not mere tests of knowledge, nor challenges for the sake of challenging. Humility is not easily learned, nor is it a wisdom to be overlooked.”

“But isn’t the battlefield a sufficiently humbling experience, Master Gallia?” Obi-Wan finds himself countering. His ears are hot. He’s not sure what possessed him to implicate himself into a debate amongst the Masters of the Council, not to mention on an issue so radical.

“Not in every case, I don’t believe,” Rancisis answers instead. 

“Obi-Wan has a point,” says Plo Koon. “The Trials held at the Temple are meant to simulate the arduous conditions of the old days. I imagine the true war we are fighting should outweigh the experience provided by artificial trials, no?”

“The Trials of the Temple are not only simulations,” Windu says, frowning. “They have evolved from their primitive predecessors. They have been redesigned and reformed countless times to ensure that a Jedi Knight, having passed them, is ready in body as in spirit.”

“Indeed.” Ki Adi laces his fingers together in thought. “Substituting experience for one or two Trials has been done before. Substituting all of them, however…”

“A precedence for that, we do have,” Yoda says, tilting his head towards Obi-Wan.

“With all due respect, Master Yoda, an outlier should not constitute a precedence for generalized practice,” Windu says. “None of us would wish to have more Sith Lords for Padawans to defeat.”

Gallia turns the attention back to Obi-Wan. “And which Padawan is it that you have in mind, Knight Kenobi?”

“I suggest my Padawan,” Obi-Wan says without missing a beat. The Council goes still, and he seizes his opportunity to speak on. “Surely you all can agree that Anakin has passed the Trial of the Flesh at the hands of Count Dooku. He faced Trial of Skills when he stands up to a darksider on the fourth moon of Yavin, and he continues to pass his Trial of Courage every day on the field. As for the Trial of the Spirit...” His gaze sweeps around the room. “In my experience, little can rival the loss of one’s own master, be the death presumed or confirmed.”

The Council remains silent for a good few moments after he’s finished. Initially Obi-Wan has assumed they were merely letting him speak, but now he feels the shift in the tension.

Yoda is the first to break the silence. “During your absence, consider Young Skywalker’s knighthood, we did.” 

Obi-Wan feels a surge of pride in him. So his assessments haven’t been wrong - even the Council has noted Anakin’s efforts, unprompted by him. “Then we have all the more reason to discuss that possibility.”

“We have… attempted to discuss that possibility, with your Padawan,” Ki Adi says. Obi-Wan frowns a bit at the atmosphere. He gets the distinct feeling that the entire Council of Masters are exchanging a look right in front of him.

“And may I ask what Anakin has said?”

All of his blood rushes to his face at the answer.

  
  


“Anakin.” Obi-Wan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he walks into Anakin’s quarters. He’s sure he’s still quite pink. It’s an improvement from the shade of red that he has flushed before the Jedi Council, but the warmth on his face is still far too noticeable for comfort.

Anakin glances up briefly before looking back down at the circuit board in his hand. He’s sitting on the floor - again - amidst scattered droid parts and an array of tools. “Master,” he greets, innocently. “How did your report to the Council go?”

“Relatively uneventful, I would say.” Obi-Wan settles on the couch, carefully finding a place to put his feet. “If you don’t count the fact that we discussed the possibility of your knighthood.”

Now Anakin snaps his head up. “Oh,” he says. He seems surprised, and… thoughtful.

Obi-Wan gives him a long look. “The Council informed me that the conversation has come up with you before.”  _ Either Obi-Wan knights me, or nobody does. _ As soon as the words were recited to him, he instantly imagined how Anakin had said it: with his brows all furrowed and his jaws bunching, uttering a self-righteous, defiant declaration, putting his regards for one presumed-dead Jedi above the recognition of the entire Order. Obi-Wan wishes he could say he wonders where he’d gone wrong in teaching Anakin, but the fact of the matter is: he already knows. He already knows that he himself is not so different.

It is a failure. And so he takes on a much sterner voice than he would have otherwise. “It is irredeemably inappropriate for you to say that, Padawan. Throwing away your own future as a Jedi for my sake is not a—”

“I know, Master,” Anakin says, quietly. “I didn’t know what else to say.” His head hangs; his gaze is downcast. His fingers curl and uncurl around the micro-screwdriver in his hand. Obi-Wan can feel an apologetic trepidation rippling across their bond. Suddenly the Anakin he has imagined vanishes. He feels shame for his own assumptions about his apprentice. Has it been defiance, or was it panic and despair? 

He softens at once. He lays a hand on his Padawan’s shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze. “You didn’t mean it, did you?”

Anakin sets down the tools and circuit board and looks up. His face is an open book, eyes wide, brows drawn up, lips in a trembling line. “I meant it,” he says.

“I don’t doubt the sincerity of your emotions in the moment, young one. But the authority resides with the Order, not me, regardless of the symbolism—”

“I want you to knight me. It’s your right,” Anakin says firmly. He rises to his feet and plants his hands on the back of the couch, bracketing Obi-Wan’s shoulders. “Because you are my Master. It wouldn’t be fair to take it from you.”

“Anakin.” Obi-Wan places a hand flat on his chest. He shouldn’t feel so warmed by the sentiment. “I am not so important.”

“You are.” Anakin says. He’s still uncharacteristically quiet, but the tone of his voice is steel and fire. "You are important, Master.”

Obi-Wan is left speechless to consider all the implications. He's not sure he could chide his apprentice for this. It's not strictly any violation of the Code, to claim that a sentient life is important. And he's perhaps not in any place to lecture. He would not lie: the way Anakin says it makes his heart swell. _ I don't deserve him. _

"But... I guess I'm not going to be knighted anytime soon anyway, so," Anakin follows up sheepishly as he pulls back and settles down. "You'll have to wait, Master."

Obi-Wan smiles. "As a matter of fact, I won't have to."

Anakin stares at him. "You mean…"

"Yes, my Padawan. It has been decided." 

"But I thought— I still..."

Obi-Wan waits. Anakin doesn't seem to find the words. He places a hand on Anakin's shoulder. "You still have much to learn, that's not untrue. But you have outgrown my tutelage. Now we must leave the roles of master and student." He nods lightly when Anakin's brows shoot up. "It is time we became brothers."

For a moment Anakin looks like he's going to cry. In the end, though, he only smiles wide and laughs out in disbelieving little huffs, gaze fluttering, face flushing. His mechno-hand reaches over, linking fingers with him and Obi-Wan can't find it in him to mind.

"Do I have to learn words for the ceremony?" Anakin manages at last, grinning.

Obi-Wan laughs and runs a hand through Anakin’s cropped hair. "You better do."


	8. Obi-Wan VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’ve always told me to take precautions and think before I act, Master. How is that a good thing, but trying to prevent something as bad as your _death_ isn’t fine?” Anakin leans forward. “If you foresaw Qui-Gon’s death, wouldn’t you want to—”
> 
> “Because you are fearful, right now,” Obi-Wan cuts in, stern and sudden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Underage drinking (under 21 years of age). See end notes for details.  
> Warning 2: Slight spoiler for _Master and Apprentice_.

“Master, can I sleep in your quarters?”

“Again?” Obi-Wan merely cocks a brow; it’s been three days in a row. Anakin already pulls his legs on the couch, entirely unbothered, while his feet hang considerably over the edge. “I can’t imagine it’s comfortable sleeping there.”

Anakin shifts back and pats his pillow, yawning. “‘S fine.” His hair is all mussed, braid tucked under the collar of his rumpled sleep tunic because he couldn’t be bothered to pull it out. Obi-Wan resists the urge to right it for him. “This way, I won’t be late for the ceremony, Master.”

“You seem to think me your human alarm clock, Anakin.”

Anakin grins, shrugging out the blanket. “Goodnight, Master.” He doesn’t even try to deny it, the gall of this boy.

_ He’s a boy no longer _ , Obi-Wan corrects himself as he flips the light switch.  _ Not for some time now _ . He can hardly recall when, exactly, Anakin has become a man. Is it when the light and the daydream catch in Anakin’s gaze upon Senator Amidala? Is it the moment the tears mourning Shmi Skywalker dry from his eyes? Or is it when Anakin sits up in the infirmary bed with an empty sleeve and a broken heart? Perhaps there is no pinpointing a single moment in time, only the cumulation of them all. Regardless, his Padawan is now a grown man, and a Jedi, headstrong but capable, coarse but kind, artless but charming. No prophecy or words of a dying man could have convinced Obi-Wan of Anakin’s brilliance more than the very years spent training him. Soon they will be equals, and Anakin will no doubt thrive on his own, without his old Master to hold him back. This, Obi-Wan knows to be truer than the universe itself - and if he suddenly feels a little left behind, the thought is purely selfish, so he shall discard it as soon as it comes.

Obi-Wan smiles to himself. He sure is becoming an old man.

  


From the High Council Tower, one has quite an impressive panorama of Coruscant. Morning glows golden behind thin skyscrapers. Layers upon layers of duracrete roads, bridges and platforms shroud the Lower Levels, where darkness breeds darkness - none of which is in view. Much of the city above is silver durasteel and sleek glass, dotted by traffic lights, store signs and electronic boards. It's an ordinary day to the rest of the universe, but not to him.

The Council Chamber door creaks open. Obi-Wan glances away from the transparisteel wall. Beside him, Anakin lets out a soft sigh and draws his hood down.

_ Go on _ , Obi-Wan urges. Anakin’s trepidation laces into his reassurance. Obi-Wan watches the slight bounce of his Padawan’s pulled-back hair as they step into the pitch-black chamber. The last strip of light slides into complete darkness when the door swings shut. He matches Anakin’s strides. Their cloaks brush against each other at their ankles. Walk any closer and their hands might as well be linking.

Twelve upright lightsabers blaze at once in a large circle around them. The Jedi Masters stand as still as sentinels. Directly ahead of them is Master Yoda upon his chair. Obi-Wan sends Anakin his encouragement and pride and fondness through their training bond. He will miss being able to do this when the bond is gone.

Yoda speaks up. “Padawan Anakin Skywalker and his Master, Obi-Wan Kenobi, the Council now calls. Step forward, you will.”

They do as instructed. Illuminated in the static glow of blue and green, they step towards the very center of the Council room. Obi-Wan turns first and Anakin follows suit. They stand facing each other. Anakin smiles at him, sure and trusting, and goes down on one knee. Their eyes never leave each other throughout.

The Grand Master gestures at Obi-Wan. “Bring forth your lightsaber, you will, Knight Kenobi.”

The hum of his lightsaber joins the low droning of the other twelve in the room.

“Anakin Skywalker, my Padawan,” Obi-Wan says. Anakin mouths  _ Yes, Master _ when he knows he’s not supposed to answer, his smile unduly playful. It’s all Obi-Wan can do not to grin back at him.

“Fit to shoulder this duty, your Master deems you,” Yoda continues. “Willing to accept this honor, you are.”

“Do you now swear,” Obi-Wan says, “on your honor and on the faith of the brotherhood of knights, to use the Force only for good?”

Anakin’s smile cedes place to a solemn look. “I will.”

“That you will dedicate your life to the cause of freedom and justice, of defending and protecting all those weaker than yourself?”

“I will.”

“That you will deny and turn away from the Dark Side, no matter the temptation, no matter the outlook?”

“I will.” Anakin quiets in a rehearsed pause. “And if I should fail of this vow, my life shall be forfeit, here and hereafter.”

Obi-Wan nods, and extends his lightsaber towards his apprentice. “Anakin Skywalker.” The lightsaber hovers by Anakin’s right shoulder. “By the right of the Council,” he says, moving the blade to Anakin’s left, “by the will of the Force,” then back to his right, “henceforth you shall be named…” With a light flick of his hand, the lightsaber cuts through Anakin’s braid. “...Jedi Knight of the Republic.”

Anakin gathers his Padawan braid into his hand. He rises to his feet and takes Obi-Wan’s hand at once, heedless of the Jedi Masters around them. Obi-Wan thumbs his lightsaber off, clips it, and envelopes Anakin’s hand in both of his own. His chest swells with pride.  _ You’ve done well _ , Obi-Wan projects.

Even in near darkness, with only the glow of lightsabers to illuminate him, Anakin’s smile is still brilliant.  _ Master, I want to— _ Anakin begins, but their exchange is cut short when Master Yoda speaks again.

“Come forth you will, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan turns towards the Grand Master, perplexed. He slowly withdraws Anakin’s hand, and steps up.  _ Did I miss some part of the ceremony?  _

“Come to fruition, the apprenticeship of your first Padawan has.” Yoda utters each syllable carefully. Realization dawns on Obi-Wan. “Serve as knight, young Skywalker now does. Jedi Master, you shall henceforth be named.”

The Grand Master holds up his hand. Curtains slide back and blinds roll up, uncovering the floor-to-ceiling windows. Sunlight streams into the Council room through transparisteel. All twelve sabers in the room are extinguished in one swift sizzle. “Congratulate the two of you for your success, I do.”

“Thank you, Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan and Anakin say in impromptu chorus.

  


As soon as they set foot into the hallway, Anakin turns to him with the same serious expression. “Master, I want you to have this.” He pries Obi-Wan’s hand open and presses something into his palm. Obi-Wan looks down. The Padawan braid uncoils slowly in his hand - a smooth, nearly golden cord in the sunlight.

He grips Anakin’s arm, firmly prompting him to move along until they’re standing by a pillar. Still blatantly public and unfit for any sort of solemn conversation whatsoever, but at least no longer in the middle of the hallway. “Anakin, are you quite sure?”

“Of course I am,” Anakin says matter-of-factly. He even looks surprised that Obi-Wan has to ask. “You’re the most important person to me, Master. I love you. There’s no one else I’d rather give this to.”

One would have thought Obi-Wan has gotten used to Anakin’s penchant for sweeping declarations. But Anakin is so sincere every time, despite how often he says it. Being on the receiving end of such an intense sentiment feels undeserving.

“I appreciate it,” Obi-Wan says, as mildly as he possibly can, with a smile. It is an understatement. He folds the braid over, carefully, and tucks it into a pocket on his belt. “Congratulations again, Anakin. It was truly a privilege to witness your efforts come to fruition.”

Anakin doesn’t smile, for a moment. “You say it like a goodbye, Master.”

_ Is  _ that _ what bothers him? _ ”That’s not it.” Obi-Wan rests both hands on Anakin’s shoulders, giving him a grounding touch. “It’s only a new beginning. I’m sure we will end up on the same mission again, at some point.” Or rather, he hopes so.

“Yeah,” Anakin mutters, under his breath. The sudden dent in the mood is somewhat puzzling. “I know, Master. It’s just…” He sighs, and finally, he smiles, his tone turning airy. “Who’s going to save your skin when I’m not there?”

“First of all, Anakin, that should be my line.” Obi-Wan gives him a pointed look, though not without a smile. “Second of all, I am quite sure I will fare just fine, thank you for your concerns.”

Anakin grins. “Want to bet, Master?”

“Now Anakin, losing a bet is no way to celebrate your knighthood.”

“Oh don’t worry Master, I know how to celebrate.” His grin turns wolfish. Obi-Wan lifts a brow at him. Anakin’s eyes glint. “With you.”

—

While no part of any written rule, it is convention and tradition that the newly-knighted and their former Master would take some time off, preferably a fortnight, to meditate together, reflect on the change in their connection, and gently ease their training bond into oblivion. It is as much a moment of respite as it serves a utilitarian purpose. Now, with the war looming over them, they could afford no such thing. Not that Obi-Wan has ever experienced it either, but he still feels sorry that Anakin can’t have it. (And perhaps part of him is too nostalgic for his own good. Surely he is not to feel so unready to part ways with his former Padawan, especially when he has made the suggestion in the first place.) Which is why he wholeheartedly gives Anakin free reign on the short evening they’ve been allocated.

He’s starting to regret it right now.

Anakin’s suggestion has seemed completely benign. A night out drinking is nothing out of the ordinary, and Anakin has seemed so sure, too.  _ “There’s this place near the Corellian diner - you know which one, right Master?” _ , he has chirped on, like he knew what he was doing. So Obi-Wan went along, quite happy for Anakin’s enthusiasm in fact. Sure, Anakin was pink-faced and chatty after the first round, and only a little too loud after the second. Minutes into their third round, Anakin’s got one arm slung over Obi-Wan’s shoulders, happily giggling every other sentence or so. He has attempted to sing a few times, loudly and decidedly out of tune. Bar that, his mental shields waver, laying startlingly ajar while little bursts of joy crackle across their bond, obviously not voluntary.

Behind the counter, a Togruta bartender prepares Anakin’s fourth drink with five different liquors poured into two shot glasses. Obi-Wan eyes it with apprehension as one of the glasses is lit on fire. “Anakin, what  _ did _ you order?”

“It’s fine, Master,” Anakin waves a hand. “I got this.”

Obi-Wan sighs inwardly. He rights Anakin’s posture at best he can with an arm around his waist, and Anakin lets out a low chuckle. Which— Alright. It is one of his sweeter sorts of laughter. Obi-Wan has to smile, despite himself.

“How did you even know of this place?” The bar is situated quite deep within a complex in the Lower Levels, with a zigzagging path leading in. Anakin couldn’t have just stumbled upon it - especially when he has barely been on Coruscant for the past few years.

“Oh, I’ve been here before,” Anakin shrugs, pulls the flaming shot glass to him and puts the straw to his lips. “With the Chancellor.”

Obi-Wan’s entire train of thoughts screech to a halt.

“When did you— Wait!” He tugs at dark robes as Anakin proceeds to put out the fire with the second shot glass. Too late; Anakin has downed the whole thing, eyes squeezed shut, before turning back to him with a triumphant grin. Before he can beckon the bartender for another round, Obi-Wan turns to grip his shoulders, pivoting the young Knight towards him. He weaves stability into their bond and reaches Anakin’s signature on the other side.  _ Listen to me, _ Obi-Wan projects gravely. Anakin’s response is a blurry,  _ Relax, Master. _

_ When did the Chancellor bring you here? _

“Don’t know,” Anakin says out loud. Obi-Wan gives him a firm tug in the Force, and Anakin grins and shakes his head and remembers to project again.  _ Long time ago, Master. _

Obi-Wan feels like he’s choking on a gulp of ice.  _ How old were you then? _

Anakin pauses, brows twitching lightly, like he means to frown but it loosens far too quick.  _ Twelve, _ he blinks, a vague smile still playing across his lips.  _ I think. _

Force. Force almighty. Why has Anakin never told him any of it, all these years? They have had to cede to the Chancellor’s demands countless time during Anakin’s childhood, to he and Mace’s dismay. Had Obi-Wan known exactly just how foul Palpatine’s intentions were, he would have fought much,  _ much _ harder to keep Anakin from his clutch. Obi-Wan takes in a deep breath. Of the two of them, he’s the senior, and the one still sober. He has to stay calm, even though he wants nothing more than to sling Anakin over his shoulders  _ right now _ , drag him home to sober him up and sit him down for a serious conversation.

“Master?” Anakin tilts his head, blinking. “You a’right?” 

Perceptive as ever, Obi-Wan thinks.  _ I’m concerned, Anakin _ , he projects.  _ What could the Chancellor possibly have to do with a twelve-year-old in a bar of the Lower Levels? _

“A mission,” Anakin says brightly. “Undercover. He needed my help. It was a success.”

Obi-Wan frowns. Using the guise of a mission to coax a child into a Lower Levels bar is certainly a new low.  _ What sort of help, Anakin? _

Anakin smiles and leans closer to him. “Oh, don’t worry ‘bout it now.” Obi-Wan gives up on reminding him to project his answer rather than speaking out loud. “The Chance— He, he’s just a lonely grandpa, you know? He’s real nice. He offered to help me, lots.”

_ Anakin, surely you know how risky it is to be indebted to just about anyone in a position of power? Let alone the leader of the Senate. _

“Yeah, but.” Anakin sways a bit. His smile falls, slightly. “When you were missing, and everyone thought you were dead… nobody was gonna help me. But he said he would.”

“Anakin…”

Anakin’s voice goes quiet and watery. “He said it was fine to miss you. He missed you too. Nobody told me that was fine.” 

Obi-Wan highly doubts the Supreme Chancellor holds him in any such regards. He would even say that between Palpatine and he, the mistrust is mutual. Before he says anything further, though, Anakin tips forward. Obi-Wan slides down from the chair in time to catch his weight, and Anakin leans readily against him, muttering something like  _ Sorry _ and  _ I’m fine _ .

“Alright,” Obi-Wan grits, resolute. That is quite enough for one evening.

  


Anakin’s face is still reddened, but after two trips to the fresher, he no longer seems queasy. Obi-Wan helps him take off the belt and tabard and sits him down on the bed. Anakin fumbles with his boots, nearly kicking them off before he drops himself back and sinks into the sheets. He lies prone, chest rising and falling, quiet. Obi-Wan sighs.

He takes a seat at the edge of the bed, running a hand through Anakin’s cropped locks to tug off his hair tie. “You really went ahead of yourself, young one,” he murmurs.

To his surprise, Anakin’s eyes crack opens and his lips quirk into a crooked grin. “Worth it, Master.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. He means to be disapproving, but he cannot help a smile. “Alright, I suppose you couldn’t have known. Who would have thought the Chosen One would turn out to be an utter lightweight?”

Anakin laughs. Obi-Wan pulls himself onto his feet, only to pause when mechno-fingers laces into his own. “Master...” Anakin’s hand tightens. “Don’t go.”

“I prefer not to sleep on a couch, Anakin,” Obi-Wan quips wryly, even as his heartbeat jumps.  _ Anakin is only drunk _ , he reminds himself. He has better not reminisce - or  _ presume _ \- too much.

“Not the couch,” Anakin mumbles. He scoots back, and Obi-Wan stares at him.

“Anakin, you are a grown man and a knighted Jedi. This bed of yours is strictly sized for one adult human. You can’t possibly…”

“Please?” Anakin looks up at him, eyes wide. Wide, and not the heavy-lidded, intoxicated look from earlier. “Stay with me, Master?”

The tremor in Anakin’s hand, the pleading lilt of his voice, the trepidation in their bond tug at him all at once. There’s no harm in it, is there? He had better keep an eye on Anakin’s possible hangover, in any case. So he changes, settles and closes his eyes as Anakin tucks himself against his side. Warmth from Anakin’s bright signature encapsulates him. Obi-Wan drifts off, feeling more secure than he has in ages.

—

For months after Anakin’s graduation, they continue to be assigned together on mission after mission after mission. Anakin now leads his own battalion as a general, yet it feels as if little has changed between them. The feeling won’t last, Obi-Wan knows. He treasures it all the more for it. Each time a joint assignment nears its end, he’s prepared for separation on the next. This time is no different, and the thought lingers as he enters their shared tent.

Then they receive a com call.

A reconnaissance mission directly ordered by the Chancellor himself - even at the discretion of Master Windu - is not exactly something Obi-Wan would expect to be pulled from the frontline for. Unlike him, Anakin doesn’t seem to mind at all. “We’re together again,” is his first reaction, and then, “Don’t worry, Master,” with that easygoing grin of his. He’s so obviously pleased that Obi-Wan can’t help smiling in return, tucking his questions away for later examination.

Nelvaan, their destination, is a snow-covered planet located deep in the Outer Rim. An age ago, when Anakin was still a child accustomed to the heat of the desert and nothing else, an assignment on a planet covered in snow such as this Nelvaan would have Obi-Wan planning for days on end, to make sure they have sufficient extra coats and cloaks. Now, he has no such concern any longer. He only carries one extra cloak, just in case. The voyage is estimated to stretch for about one and a half standard weeks. They fall into the usual routine during travels: reports in the morning, strategies in the afternoon, leisure time in the evening, and nightly rest. Days pass by, not one bit out of the ordinary.

Until the nightmares start.

Not his own. Obi-Wan could hardly call any dream of his a proper nightmare: unpleasant dreams never truly scare him, only instill a certain sense of dread at worst. No, it’s the beginnings of Anakin’s night terrors that he senses. Even his sleep, he hears the panting, the whimpers, the fearful mumbles. The tossing, the rustling of clothes, the scrabble of blunt nails against the mattress.

The first time it happens, it all stops abruptly before Obi-Wan could sit up. Anakin’s feet thud heavily against the durasteel floor. He slips out the door, and Obi-Wan doesn’t hear of him again until he returns in the morning, eyes sunken and hands stained with grease, smelling of the hangar, and looking like he doesn’t want to answer questions. The second night repeats itself in much the same fashion, and Obi-Wan can barely sleep - but he lays still, determined to give Anakin the choice to come to him rather than press him for questions. Anakin returns earlier this time, and he feels Anakin’s eyes on his back for a long while, before clothes and blanket rustles and they sink back into silence. Obi-Wan isn’t sure either of them get any sleep that night. On the third, concerns over Anakin’s well-being win over the compulsion to preserve Anakin’s pride. As soon as the muttering and the movements start, Obi-Wan’s eyes shoot open. He rises to his feet, approaching Anakin’s bunk.

Anakin bolts upright at once. Light gleams in his eyes, febrile. Heaving breaths still fill the air. His voice is rough with sleep, but his clear enunciation speaks of alarm. “Master. Where are you going?” 

Obi-Wan simply paces the last few steps - to which Anakin  _ flinches _ , for some reason - and sits down at the edge of the bunk. “I was coming to you,” he explains, slowly, laying a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. Anakin shudders. Obi-Wan keeps himself from frowning, and softens his voice. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Anakin is staring at him with a despair he can’t quite place. “I don’t know,” he says, confusingly, confusedly. Obi-Wan doesn’t speak just yet. He waits. Anakin’s skin feels hot to the touch, even through a layer of fabric. Mist clouds their bond, buzzing with distress. After another moment of thick silence, Anakin swallows audibly. “...It’s you.”

“In your dreams, you mean?” Obi-Wan guesses gently. Anakin nods, so Obi-Wan ventures again. “The same for the past few days?” Anakin pauses, mouth open. Then his gaze drops, and he puts a hand over Obi-Wan’s wrist. Obi-Wan pulls back, thinking it cue for him to leave the young man alone to cool down and rest.

But just that slightest motion breaks the dam. Suddenly Anakin is clutching at his arm with both hands. “It’s you. I saw you. You were...” Anakin rasps. “Master, you were dying.”

Dying is hardly a far-fetched possibility. The galaxy has believed him dead once. They are fighting a war - they mourn their dead on the daily. It wouldn’t surprise Obi-Wan if Anakin’s vision turns out to be true. What alarms him is how those visions are affecting Anakin.

“And how did that happen?”, he asks carefully.

“I don’t— I only see your, your face. You were looking at me, you— were calling for me, calling my name. You were in pain, I saw it, I felt it. There was someone else there… I heard blaster guns. I don’t know. But I felt very cold.” Anakin looks up, realization sinking. “It was a cold place. It’s  _ going _ to be a really cold place. Master, you can’t go to Nelvaan, we have to—”

Obi-Wan shakes his head and shifts closer. He picks a hushed tone. “I would rather not compromise the mission over a mere possibility of my demise.”

Anakin furrows his brows at him, eyes narrowed. “How could you  _ say _ that?” His grip tightens, breaths short again. “Master, you… you don’t believe me?” He sounds utterly betrayed.

“I never said I didn’t believe you,” Obi-Wan deflects. “However, need I remind you that my well-being must not take precedence over our duty?“

“Duty?” Anakin’s voice bounces off the walls in its intensity, from hoarse to cracking. “You wouldn’t say that if you saw what I saw, Master. You…” He swallows thickly, and switches threads. “There are plenty of missions we could’ve gone on! We just need to com someone on the Council, reassign us, and change course.” 

Obi-Wan frowns. Putting someone above an assignment is definitely unacceptable, and a dangerous way of thinking - one that the Council has feared would take roots in Anakin as he grows up; one that Obi-Wan has for years tried to dissuade his Padawan from. It seems he has failed yet again. “That is an inordinate course of action to take over a vision, Anakin, and I would not have you—“

“So you  _ don’t _ believe me!” Anger and hurt boils up in their bond, crashing into Obi-Wan’s calm with a ravaging force. “Did you know a dream was all I had to find my mother? And when I searched for you, it was also because of what I saw in my head—” Anakin cuts himself off with a strangled sound in his throat. The flush on his face deepens as he gasps out. “I was too late twice, Master! I don’t want that to happen again!”

“ _ Anakin. _ ” Obi-Wan cups Anakin’s face with his free hand. How is it that his attempt to gentle his former Padawan has escalated him so? “Listen to me count, and breathe.” He weaves into Anakin’s white-hot anger and fear. Anakin is undeterred, but so is he, and their opposite convictions sizzle in collision. 

_ One, two _ . Obi-Wan projects his counting, planting each beat into the treacherous ground of Anakin’s mind, leaving them to take root with a gentle touch.  _ Four, five, _ and Anakin’s breathing evens out.  _ Seven, nine, ten, _ and Anakin’s grip loosens on his arm. His signature all but wraps around Anakin’s, offering a shield to every crack in Anakin’s defense, a crutch for every corner that is wavering. Feeling Anakin cool down in his hold brings him immense peace.

Anakin lets go of his arm, but keeps his hand. Obi-Wan doesn’t pull away, only reaches over to brush a lock of sweat-damp hair from Anakin’s forehead and tuck it behind his ear. Sometimes he forgets how young Anakin still is. Just because he’s knighted now doesn’t mean he‘s suddenly older than the twenty-year-old he is. “There are plenty of cold places in the galaxy,” he begins, softly. Anakin looks up, chewing his upper lip the way he does when he’s embarrassed. “Even if the Council sends us on a warm planet, we might end up, say, in a facility, or underground, where that coldness you felt would be warranted.”

“Then you’re just going to accept your death, if it were true?” Anakin’s voice doesn’t carry the same anger anymore, only despair. Obi-Wan feels a pang of failure, to know that Anakin still doesn’t know how to rid himself of fear. “You said you would live…” Anakin protests quietly, trailing off.  _ For me, _ the word is left unsaid. Obi-Wan presses his lips in a line, chest squeezing. The statement still rings so deeply true in his heart.

“And I mean it,” he concedes. “I would live for you, and for the purpose of the Order. However, committing to life is not the same as avoiding death at all costs.”

Anakin frowns. “How is that different?”

Obi-Wan considers him for a few long moments. Anakin doesn’t interrupt the silence, which he appreciates. “Master Qui-Gon once had a vision of me in mortal danger as well,” he begins. He doesn’t mean for it to be in a bedtime story tone, but the air in the room seems to settle along with the turmoil in Anakin’s presence. Anakin almost visibly perks up at his words, and Obi-Wan smiles. “I was seventeen. We were on a mission to Pijal, to oversee the ratification of a constitutional treaty. At some point, he had a dream - or rather, a vision - of the ceremony, in which I was threatened, along with the Pijali monarch, with no means of self-defense. He would have been duty-bound to protect the monarch rather than me, so of course… he tried everything he could to cancel the ceremony.” A faint yet fond smile crosses his face. “In the end, the ceremony was still carried out as planned.”

“So his vision didn’t turn out to be true, then?” Anakin asks, seemingly caught between skeptical and relieved. Obi-Wan shakes his head.

“On the contrary, it happened exactly as he’d seen in his dream. But what he had seen was mere glimpses. He didn’t know, for example, that my lightsaber had been sabotaged by the enemy, only for it to be able to slice through an anti-kyber shield. I didn’t know either. Not even the enemy knew, else they wouldn’t have done it. It was simply a thing that happened, that nobody could have anticipated.” Obi-Wan pauses, lifting his eyes to meet Anakin’s. “His visions were accurate. His interpretations were flawed.”

Anakin frowns, deep in thought. “But he still did try to save you,” he points out. “You said he tried everything, Master. Why shouldn’t I do the same?”

“Because what he did only aggravated what he dreaded would happen,” Obi-Wan replies at once. He smoothes a hand down Anakin’s arm. “And we survived because we reacted on the spot, and lived in the present. You cannot control the future, Anakin, no more than you can control the past. There’s only the present.”

“You’ve always told me to take precautions and think before I act, Master. How is that a good thing, but trying to prevent something as bad as your  _ death _ isn’t fine?” Anakin leans forward. “If you foresaw Qui-Gon’s death, wouldn’t you want to—”

“Because you are fearful, right now,” Obi-Wan cuts in, stern and sudden. Even Anakin seems taken aback by his tone, and he softens again. “You’re considering an extreme situation, and you’re thinking up drastic solutions to go with it. That would not do, Anakin. I’m touched by your concern for me, but don’t you trust in the Force, and trust me to protect myself?”

Anakin lets out a deep breath. “I do, Master. I trust you.” A beat. “I, I understand what you mean. It’s not— my place to decide, life or death.” He swallows thickly. “I just, I’ve grieved you once. It’s hard to…” he trails off. “I don’t want to go through that again, Master.”

“Neither do I.” Obi-Wan nods. “But you must not let yourself be haunted by it. Let go of your fears, Anakin. I’m right here.”

He brushes Anakin’s hair back again. This time, Anakin leans into his touch, and finally, shakily, smiles.

—

They land on meters-thick snow. The air is frigid, coldness cutting deep into their every breath. Troopers at their heels, they begin to march. Anakin’s back is ramrod straight, and after sneezing for the third time, he grudgingly accepts the extra cloak Obi-Wan has brought along, to Obi-Wan’s amusement.

They observe with their eyes and reach out in the Force. A planet-wide scan earlier conducted on the ship has detected irregular heat concentration in about this area, suggesting industrial activities or any technological facility that utilize similar levels of energy - in other words, a factory or a laboratory. It is disrupting enough that Obi-Wan feels the disturbance keenly; and so does Anakin, it seems, judging by the deep frown on his face. Yet the landscape around them is all glittering white and skeletal trees. The most eventful they’ve had thus far is when a crystalline rodent crossed their path, kicking up snow with a shriek. Other than that, the world seems barren, the sky lightless, the air silent save for their breathing and muffled footfall.

Which makes the sudden crash all the more jarring.

The shadow looms as large as a hill. Comes a beastly roar, and trees crackle and collapse, crushed under a massive foot. The reptilian creature stomps its feet, crushing two unfortunate troopers, to his horror. The rest of the clones scatter back, blasters ready. Obi-Wan doesn’t draw his weapon just yet - the beast is decidedly not sentient, and so it’s an innocent life he doesn’t want to take. 

Anakin steps in front of him, lightsaber already blazed. “Stay back, Master!”

The beast’s pupils contract, eyes moving along as Anakin charges. The lightsaber sweeps in a wide arch, and the beast bellows in pain when Anakin cleanly slices off one of its feet. Disoriented, it doesn’t notice Anakin propelling off the ground and landing atop its head.

“Wait,” Obi-Wan calls out. Anakin moves too fast to interrupt. “No, wait—”

Anakin plunges the lightsaber into its skull. The beast thrashes, tail swishing and knocking down another row of trees, before collapsing to the ground. Anakin leaps down. Behind the beast’s cadavre, there are sounds. Footsteps. The clinking of metal and wood, rudimentary weapons. Obi-Wan narrows his eyes, looking over Anakin’s shoulder as he reaches out for a better outlook.

Anakin’s face falls. “Master, what are you looking at?”

Obi-Wan gives a tilt of the head towards the slowly approaching crowd of Nelvaanians. Anakin turns around, and Obi-Wan hopes his former Padawan as well can sense the displeasure coming from the natives. “I think you might’ve interrupted something, Anakin.”

  


The Nelvaanians aren’t as angered as Obi-Wan feared. Yes, they are entirely unconcerned with the work of the Jedi, secluded as they are; and yes, they are displeased. But they are not quite hostile. It seems that the reptilian beast was being hunted as part of a young warrior’s coming of age ritual, and now that Anakin has finished it off in one stroke, the young woman will have to start over with her quest. However, quick deliberations on the spot have concluded with them leading Obi-Wan and Anakin back to their settlements. They only ask for the troopers to remain with the ship, which is a fair concession.

They all ride on the back of large white banthas, traveling on icy slopes, passing between mountainside settlements. Houses stack upon houses like stalagmites in the rocks. There are hollows and plateaux in the belly of the mountains, shielded from the snow by the natural shape of rock formations, and the villagers set up their market stalls and town squares there. A buzzing sense of anxiety threads through the air, in the rustling murmurs of villagers who observe the Jedi with narrowed eyes as they pass by.

Anakin shoots him a look. Obi-Wan nods in acknowledgement. So they’ve both noticed it: Nearly all of them are either children, elderly or ill.

Their trip slowly comes to a halt at a jutting cliff near the mountaintop. There, under the arch of a cave, sits a very old Nelvaanian, draped in furs and beads, immobile by a low, banked fire. An elder, whose eyes are glazed over, unseeing. The villagers surround the elder at once, discussing in hushed, agitated voices, too rapid for Obi-Wan to catch. Anakin looks around, observing the cave paintings that run from the foot of the walls to the very ceiling. He crosses his arms, hands bundled in his sleeves. “What are they talking about?”

“I haven’t a clue.” Obi-Wan rubs a hand over his beard, brows drawn in concentration. “I couldn’t make out what they’re saying.”

Finally, the Nelvaanians turn to them. A gesture of a hand, and they’re invited to sit. Obi-Wan settles before the fire, facing the villagers; Anakin takes his seat flush beside him, shoulder to shoulder. The elder begins to speak in a hoarse, raspy voice, slow and clear.

“ _ You must journey through fire _ ,” Obi-Wan translates. Anakin turns to him with a look of confusion. Obi-Wan merely sets a hand on his arm in reassurance. “I believe they are summoning the spirit of… the fire.” Anakin leans closer, almost linking arms with him, presumably to hear him better.

“ _ The mother weeps. She is sick _ ,” Obi-Wan continues to interpret, under his breath. He feels the slightest flutter from Anakin’s side of the bond - which they still haven’t had the time to dissolve as they move together from mission to mission. Anakin is frowning deeply. Across from them, on the other side of the fire, the elder raises their staff skyward. “ _ Our warriors have failed. Failed to heal the mother. Into the never ending winter, a stranger comes. _ ” Now the elder’s voice rises, and Obi-Wan’s heart picks up its pace. Intrigue pricks at the back of his neck. “ _ Tell us why he has come. What is his purpose? _ ”

The fire flickers and flares into a gilded violet. Smoke twists up like giant serpents, yet instead of the usual gritty, ashy smell, the scent is freshly and almost cloyingly herbal. For a fraction of a second, the hearth seems heatless, and images dance across his vision, shapes and colors overlapping absurdly as though in a dreamscape. The smoke and the mirage vanish in a heartbeat, leaving the fire warm, orange and tame.

The elder is silent.

Somehow, those unseeing eyes are sharply fixed on Anakin.

Obi-Wan shifts minutely in his place, resisting the urge to put himself between the Knight and the fire.

“ _ Holt kezed _ ,” says the elder.  _ Holt kezed _ , repeats the rest of the circle, questioningly.  _ Holt kezed… _ His stomach sinks at the realization. It could not have been more literal. Obi-Wan has enough faith in the Nelvaanians and their display of hospitality thus far to believe they would not go out of their way to do harm. But the elder’s gaze feels uncanny as they speak on.

“What are they saying, Master?”, whispers Anakin. 

“ _ Holt kezed _ … means ‘dead hand‘, or ‘ghost hand’.” Obi-Wan turns to him. “ _ The ghost hand shall heal the mother. _ ” He reaches over, and cradles Anakin’s gloved right hand in both of his own. “Anakin, this is not something to be taken lightly. I believe they think you are here to help them.”

Anakin lifts a brow. “To make up for ruining their ritual?”

“More or less.” Obi-Wan smiles, despite himself. “Their rituals are meant to pick out warriors to… heal the land from some sort of corruption, I believe. But all the warriors they sent out have disappeared.”

“So that’s why only the sickly and the weak are left. And it could be linked to the disturbance we sensed?” Anakin ponders for a moment, then shrugs. “Well… I don’t mind. Can you tell them, Master? That I’m willing to help.”

Obi-Wan furrows his brows. It seems hasty. “Are you certain?”

“Don’t worry, Master,” Anakin says in lieu of an answer, smiling. He squeezes Obi-Wan’s hand and, in an inexplicable gesture, lifts it to his lips, planting a kiss on Obi-Wan’s knuckles. In the firelight, his eyes gleam with soft reverence. “Don’t worry for me.”

Obi-Wan has little to say to that, with the flush on his face.

He pushes everything to the back of his mind - the surprise, the rush of warmth, the tingling sense of foreboding - and wills himself to focus on the moment. He peels the glove from Anakin’s mechno-hand and holds it above his head. “ _ Holt kezed _ ,” he raises his voice. He repeats it as he rises to his feet, pulling Anakin along. The Nelvaanians all stand up as well.  _ It is him _ , they say.  _ He is the Ghost Hand. _

  


They’re given one bantha to ride on.

Which would not have been a problem if they hadn’t been  _ required _ to ride on the one specific bantha. Obi-Wan is fairly sure they can walk just fine, and if anything, they have a gunship at their disposal, with the clones still maintaining guard right where they’d landed. But the Nelvaanians have their beliefs and their rules.  _ The bantha knows the way _ , they say. To Obi-Wan, they insist:  _ Companions must ride the same mount into the cold depths. _

“Master, are you comfortable back there?” Anakin asks, voice underlain with laughter. The double saddle is only just wide enough for them to fit against each other back to chest, with Anakin taking the reins, and Obi-Wan balancing himself with his grip on the saddle. “You could put your arms around me, if you like.”

“You seem far too delighted by this for my liking,” Obi-Wan grouses. 

Eventually, his arms end up settling loosely around Anakin’s middle. 

Winds gust and whirl from behind them as they follow the frozen river towards a snow-covered mountain range. The sky grows duller, though darkness never truly envelops the land. There is no moon nor stars, only rolling clouds overhead and a paltry sort of light. They reach a great cave mouth, part buried under the snow. The air inside feels strangely warmed. The bantha refuses to move.

“It seems we must enter on foot,” Obi-Wan says.

Anakin gazes at the thick snow, the sheen of ice on rocky walls, the tunneled darkness ahead. “Feels like another trip to Ilum,” he mutters as he dismounts.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan nods, landing right beside him. “Force knows how many times you’ve been there.”

“More often than not with you in tow, Master.” Anakin laughs, hopping down and into the cave, Obi-Wan following suit. It’s not too dark inside. The treacherous ground serpentines around small rock formations and spots and cracks in the earth that would erupt into sizzling, upright streams of scalding air at just the echo of their footsteps. The powdery snow on their cloaks begin to melt and drip, the deeper they go. Mist thickens around them, putting Obi-Wan on high alert as he scans the cave from ceiling to ground, down along the stalactites.

“Master, look,” Anakin calls from a few strides away. Obi-Wan turns around, but he’s not quick enough.

Five, six torrents of burning hot air burst from the ground, separating them. Obi-Wan hardly sees his own hand in the wool-thick fog, and can barely hear his own voice above the hiss of air currents. Reaching out for Anakin in the Force feels like he’s shouldering into a wall made of rubber - his attempts are violently bounced back, nearly reeling him backwards physically. Obi-Wan lowers his center, widens his stance and draws his lightsaber. The air smells herbal, sharp, and oddly familiar. No smoke or mist should smell like this. Obi-Wan suspects hallucinogens. He shields himself from within with the Force, ready to purge out any foreign agent meant to impair him, mind or body.

There seems to be no such malice. A few beats later, Obi-Wan realizes the smell is exactly the same as the Nelvaanian elder’s fire, from the other night. _Ghost Hand._ The task is Anakin’s, not his, according to the fire’s answer - and he has a bad feeling about it. He reaches inwards for calm, and taps into the living Force around him. The presence of organic life blurs from afar, none in the vicinity. The disturbance they’ve sensed is near, but only mechanical. The fog and the hot air seem merely geological in nature. But why is it that he cannot reach Anakin?

As abruptly as it came, the fog dissipates. The smell vanishes, and the temperature sharply drops. Obi-Wan clips his saber, wiping the sweat on his brow. Across from him, Anakin is curled on the ground, against the cave wall.

“Anakin.” Obi-Wan kneels down beside him at once. He sighs, relieved, when Anakin groans and props himself up on his elbows. “Are you hurt?”

Anakin doesn’t answer. He’s frowning deeply, eyes still shut as he sits up. “Master,” he says all too quietly. “Did you see that?”

“I didn’t see anything.” Obi-Wan places a hand on Anakin’s arm, twines into his signature. Though seemingly unhurt, he looks ashen, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths as if he has been running, tunic drenched in sweat.

Anakin opens his eyes, his confusion sharp rather than dazed. He turns around and points at the plain cave wall, mouth falling open. But then he says nothing, and only stares at it for a good moment. “No…”

Slowly, Obi-Wan reaches out. He takes Anakin’s face in his hands, and Anakin doesn’t fight it. “Would you like to tell me what you saw?”

“I saw paintings,” Anakin answers. “Right here, on the rocks.”

A long, waiting silence. Obi-Wan peers at him worriedly. “Is that all?”

“No, but...” Anakin turns away, recoiling. Obi-Wan draws back. He doesn’t press, perplexed though he is, only offering Anakin a hand as they both rise to their feet. They dust themselves, and just before they move on, Anakin catches his wrist. “Can we— Can I tell you later?”

Obi-Wan nods, patting his hand. “Of course, young one. At any moment.” 

And yet, Anakin doesn’t say another word of it. Not when they discover the reactor deep in the core of the cave, the cause of the geological disturbance and the hazardous hot air pockets in the ground. Not when they find themselves the clandestine facilities set up by the Confederacy-aligned Techno Union within the mountain range. Not when they uncover the atrocious sentient-experiment done on the Nelvaanian warriors and set them all free. Not even when they ride back on the bantha, this time with Anakin’s arms tight around Obi-Wan’s waist.

Not even when Anakin’s nightmares begin again on their trip back to Coruscant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End notes: Anakin is about 19-20 here, which would probably be legal in space, I guess. (It’s legal where I am.) But if Anakin being drunk under the age of 21 is uncomfortable for you, please skip from _“While no part of any written rule”_ to _“and Obi-Wan drifts off”_. The gist of the scene is Anakin telling Obi-Wan about how Palpatine used to bring him to the Lower Levels.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m very new to Star Wars! so pls go easy on me on all the factual worldbuilding <3 I hope you enjoy!  
> (also, a lot of the scenes turn out to be just wish fulfillment so like... pls go easy on me on the narrative aspect too ahaha)


End file.
